Phil Torcivia's Blog, page 22

Lucky Bug

My
imaginary daughter, Mary, came to the gym with me today. She enjoys watching TV
on the elliptical machine while I turn purple on the gauntlet. Mary keeps one
eye on me at all times and reminds me to be "suh … tull" when I encounter a
rather attractive specimen in tights. As we left the gym and climbed into my
Jeep, she noticed a ladybug on my window.




"Oh my
gawd, Daddy! Look! It's good luck."

"It's a
bug, sweetheart," I said atheistically as I lowered my window. Naturally,
instead of flying away or falling outside the car, the bug rode the window down
and landed in my lap. You would have thought a starving piranha was tossed there
based on Mary's reaction, which caused me to flinch, open the door, and swat it away.

"Ayeeeeeee!"

"Jeez Louise.
It's a goddamn bug, you nut."

"You
said a bad word. Oh, and you killed
an innocent creature sent from the afterlife to bring you good luck. You'll
probably have a satellite fall on your head or something now. I'm not standing
anywhere near you. In fact," she continued as she got out, "I'm calling a taxi."

"Get in
this car right now, young lady."

"No."

"The bug's
not even dead, anyway."

"How do
you know?"

"Because
it has wings. It just flew away. I saw it."

"Liar."

"Get in
the car."

"Fine,
but if some eighteen wheeler careens out of control and splats you all over the
window, I'm not even going to mourn. You do have life insurance, right?"

"Shut it."




She
reluctantly got back in and secured her belt. She stared at me as we drove out
of the parking lot. As fate would have it, some idiot came tearing around the
corner, slammed on his breaks, and stopped within three feet of my door.




"See?"

"Look,
honey, we don't do superstition in this family."

"Then
how do you explain what just happened? I think it was a sign from Juno."

"It was
just coincidence."

"Didn't
your horoscope say something about staying in bed today?"

"It's
just some punk in a damn Toyota who was probably on the phone."

"Oh, and
he just happened to be passing by at the exact moment you reached the corner."

"Precisely."

"You'd
better go back and check on the ladybug."

"I will
not. Stop being silly."




I pulled
out and turned left on my side street. As I accelerated up the hill, a bird
took a giant dump which landing in a perfect star formation at driver's eye level.
Mary raised an eyebrow as I pushed the windshield wash button, resulting in a
white and yellow semi-circle smear.




"Fine."




I turned to the right and flipped a U-ey. When I pulled back into the space next to my original
one, I was careful to avoid running over the bug, which would have probably
caused a lightning strike. As soon as I put the Jeep in park, Mary jumped out.
Sure enough, she found the ladybug crawling around on the pavement, unaware of
the angst it caused me. She lifted the bug gingerly, showed me, and gently blew
in her palm, causing my lucky bug to fly away.

Little Cesare

Since eliminating the possibility of offspring I've been having nightmares
about raising two troublesome tykes--one of each gender. My son, Cesare, is
ten-years-old and he's a tyrant.



"I'm tired of leaving work to pick you
up from the principal's office. Next time your skinny ass is walking
home."

"Da-ad. You told me to stand up for myself."

"You kicked a little
girl in the vagina. What the hell is the matter with you, son?"

"Well, as it
turns out, girls don't have balls, so what was I supposed to do?"

"How about
not kick her in the crotch, for one?"

"It's your fault, anyway."

"Really?
How so?"

"She was making fun of my name, which you gave me. Thank you very
little."

"It's tradition. The first son gets named after the
grandfather."

"My friends walk around with hip names like Connor and Tyler. I
would have welcomed Joe or Bill for fuck's sake."

"Language! Your name is
unique. You should embrace that. No little girl's teasing should make you have a
violent reaction."

"She called me queasy Cesare, the pants
pee-er."

"That's pretty clever, actually."

"How'd you like a kick in the
cunt, too?"

"I don't have ... ugh ... hey! Watch your mouth!"

"You swear
all the time."

"That's no excuse. I'm an adult."

"Whatever. Say, why don't
we stop by the pub and grab a brew? You seem uptight. Maybe it would mellow your
ass out."

"I am mellow, damn it!"

"Right. Come on, Pop, let's have a beer
or six."

"You're not drinking beer. You're ten."

"Fine. I'll have a
cranberry rocks and be that cute kid all the chicks dig."

"I'll never
understand why that works."

"Just leave it to me. I got you,
bro."

"Great."

"Just keep the monkey love noises down after you bring the
bar slut home. House is on tonight and I don't want any distractions."

"Well,
what if the bar slut conveniently has a mini-slut with her?"

"Interesting
prospect."

"It happens. Maybe the mini-slut would want to get all
freaky-deaky with Little Cesare."

"No doubt. She'd need to wait until House
was over. Do we have any wine?"

"Yes and no, you won't be drinking
wine."

"Weed?"

"No weed either."

"You suck. It's not fair. You get to
use contraband to gain access and I'm left with my boyish charm and Pop
Rocks."

"What the hell does Pop Rocks candy have to do with it?"

"Oh, you
didn't know? They're only the best thing since Altoids."

"Best for what?
Breath-freshening?"

"God, you are oblivious. Pussy eating,
dumb-dumb."

"What?"

"Think about it--all of that fizziness causes
vibrations and sensations. Next thing you know, lying next to you is a quivering
lump of post-orgasmic sweetness."

"Huh. Go figure."

"See? We should hang
out more. You could learn a thing or two."

"You're fucking TEN,
slapnuts!"

"I'm an old ten. Now, how about that drink?"

"Fine, but you're
buying."

"Fine. Hey, think you could advance me a fiver on the
allowance, Pop?"

Ingredients

Another
one of those stupid online surveys asked men what they want in a wife. Duh,
their penises. Next question, please. If they asked the same question of women,
the answer would something inane like, "A best friend." Oh, lonesome and bitter
me. Where's the romance? Fine.





Here's a
sample of what the ape's responses were after the grunting:

Sports
fan
All
of her teeth
College
degree
Large
boobs
Support
Cleanliness
Freaky
sex





Here are
things this ape wants in a wife:

Directions
Confidence
Intelligence
Sex
drive
Hatred
of condoms
Feline
fanciness
Financial
responsibility
Appreciation
Sense
of humor
Baseball
knowledge





These
are things I don't want in a wife:

Other
men
Gods
Cigars
Secrets
Cocaine
Bad
breath
Real
estate license
Leechiness
Womb
for rent
Arrogance





No
surprises there. The problem is we can't order our spouse from a menu where we
can trust the ingredients listed are true. Every dish I've ordered from the
Match.com menu had falsely listed features. The caloric contents were typically
understated as were the number of diners who previously enjoyed the dish.




If women
were polled, I predict they'd want the following in a spouse:

Great
kisser
Sensitivity
Successful
career
Height
Talented
tongue
Hairless
back
Generosity
Good
listening skills
White
teeth
Dedication
without distraction





Well,
therein lies the problem: Our desires don't match up. This is why each gender
needs to modify the list to include the most important feature of all:
tolerance. We need to accept the bad with the good. Any undesirable feature can
be overridden by a but.




"…, but
she gives a legendary blowjob."

"…, but
he owns a penthouse and a Ferrari."

"…, but
she has an amazing ass."

"…, but
he loves to cook dinner and cuddle."

"…, but
she doesn't want to have children."

"…, but
he's about to be signed by the Yankees."

"…, but
she's old, rich, and has a bad cough."

"…, but he
gets free tickets to fashion events."

"…, but
she knows very little English."

"…, but
he's such a nice guy."

FDA

People,
please! Icksnay with the FDA (Facebook Displays of Affection). Perhaps I am
sour because I have nobody to make the other half of my hand-heart picture. Or,
perhaps I am bothered by braggarts. Go ahead, walk the city streets arm-in-arm
if you must. I pardon you. But, if you post one more lovey-dovey Facebook
picture, I'm unfriending you until your relationship implodes. Then, I'll
remind you to untag yourself and interview you for a future essay.




The kid
thing bugs me too. Again, perhaps it's because I never found a penetrable egg
or because my disconnected juevos guarantee I'll never change a diaper or wear
shoulder puke. Whatever. Parents, believe me when I tell you (because your
friends and relatives won't), your kids are considered cute by two to six (if
we include grandparents) people. Your Facebook pals may deliver the compliments
you seek, but they'd much rather see funny captions on pictures of Kmart
shoppers.




I blame
weddings for this annoyance. They are grand displays of opulence designed to
satisfy the ego, generate startup capital, and brag—to those of us who choose
to maintain a single toothbrush—about how "fortunate" the lovers are to have
found each other. Here's what a wedding should consist of:

I
promise not to stick my dick in any other vaginas.
I
promise not to allow any other dicks to enter my vagina.
I
now pronounce you wife and husband (ladies first).





That's
one recession-proof matrimony right there. No candy-coated almonds or netting required.




"Wow,
you two got married."

"Yep."

"I didn't
see anything about it on Facebook."

"That's because
we're not attention whores."

"Where
was the reception?"

"On our
sofa. You weren't invited."

"Well,
still, if I knew, I would have gotten you a gift."

"All
right, buy me a beer and my wife drinks vodka."

"Where
did you spend your honeymoon?"

"At
work."

"That
sucks."

"Depends
on the job, doesn't it?"

"Good
point."




Aw,
another cute couple just popped up on my feed: Jack and Jill in little aprons
cooking dinner. (Gag!) They look so happy together. (Barf!) Ooh, the
candle lit table with fine china. (Burp.) The fancy plates of food: chicken,
colorful carrots, and stinky-pee asparagus. (Yick.) Look, empty plates with
tiny gravy smears. (Blech.) Now, the happy couple snuggles on the loveseat with
cups of tea and scones while watching a romantic comedy. (Boo, hiss.)




Who's
taking these pictures? Why isn't the photographer refusing to do so unless
threatened at gunpoint?




No more
moochie faces, people. Quit it. Next time you're tempted to post an FDA,
imagine you're on a sit-com set with a studio audience of sarcastic pricks like
me. Consider that we enjoy pictures of bikini babes, MMA knockouts, and
expensive cars. We pass along videos of bikers going off cliffs, baseballs
connecting with man-balls, and shit blowing up. Now, go right ahead and
audition your little love-fest for us. Look lovingly into your soulmate's eyes
and be prepared to be showered in asshole-ades.

Crazy Is

If you
had the displeasure of standing next to me at my place of work (a bar), you
noticed my uncanny ability to attract lunatics. I welcome their company because
ordinary people require too much creative energy on my part to make them weird enough
to write about. Last night was an all-star night as I checked more than once
for a full moon.




"I hate
my husband. He calls himself 'Big Daddy' and treats me like a child."

"Oh?"

"He
gives me an allowance. Can you believe that? Twelve-hundred dollars the first
of the month."

"I
wouldn't mind a Big Mommy giving me an allowance."

"I mean,
really, what am I supposed to do with twelve-hundred dollars?"

"Bread
pudding would be a good start."

"I'm
over it. I'm leaving him."

"All
right."

"In
fact, I'm over men. Men just want my body. Well, they can't have it. I'm tired
of it."

"But …"

"I don't
need men. No more men for me. That doesn't mean I'm going to be a lesbian
either."

"Perish
the thought."

"I'm
skinny, huh? I have to watch how much I drink. I should eat."

"All
right."

"Look at
my belly," she demanded as she lifted her shirt exposing her ribcage coated in
saggy, post-natal skin.

"Yes,
you are skinny … in a fit way. You must do lots of sit-ups."

"I love
protein."

"Oh,
boy."

"Don't
you?"

"Bacon."

"What
about it?"

"I love
bacon. Bacon has protein. Which protein were you referring to?" he said
hopefully.

"I drink
Muscle Milk."

"Love
Muscle Milk?"

"What?"

"Um … don't
you love Muscle Milk?"

"I do. I
also love fish tacos. My friend and I are called 'The Double Ds.' Did you know
that?"

"What an
odd nickname."

"It's
because we both have names that begin with D."

"Naturally."

"Well,
we both have large boobs too."

"I can
see that."

"I might
be getting drunk. You know what? Fuck Big Daddy. I'm not going home to that
prick."

"All
right."




At this
point one of my friends entered the bar and approached. I gave him my best
stay-the-fuck-away look, but he noticed the boobs instead of my warning.




"Yo,
Vito, what's happening? Happy belated birthday."

"Thanks,
bro."

"Who's
this?"

"This,
my friend, is one half of the famous Double Ds. She loves protein and hates her
husband."

"Well,
then it's an honor."

"I have
to pee. Be right back."





I jogged
to the restroom and sent him a warning text: "Dude, this chick is bat-shit
fucking crazy. Run away!"




There
was no escaping her. We had to wait until her bladder gave us an opening. Once
she hit the restroom, it was assholes and elbows as we bolted to the next
asylum.

Feed

People
are running out of things to talk about. The weather is too hot, cold, or wet. *yawn* The stock market is up or down. *frown* I watched last night's show or I
missed it. *shrug* To generate interesting
chitchat, we need something new to whine about.




"Did you
notice the new Facebook feed layout?"

"Yup."

"I can't
believe they would do that. Those guys are so clueless."

"Yet,
you were on it all day."

"Why
didn't they consult anyone before they made such drastic changes?"

"You
mean why didn't they consult you,
right?"

"Oh,
come on. I'm not the only person who has a problem with it. Haven't you seen
all of the complaints?"

"Yes. I
saw them displayed on the new feed. It was convenient."

"Why are
you defending them?"

"Because
they have their reasons, which are financial reasons based on research we're
not privy to. A week from now you won't even notice."




Complaining
on Facebook about the new Facebook layout just seems weird to me. It's like
going into Starbucks and ordering a macchiato and then walking around the store
drinking it while telling everyone in line how much you hate it. If I were in
line and heard your complaint, I'd consider the source as credible as penis
enlargement cream.




Imagine
if you did any of the following:

Bought
tickets to an MLB playoff game, sat behind the dugout, and complained the
entire ballgame that pitchers don't throw spitballs anymore and long balls suck
since the steroid ban.
Drove
a Prius down the highway and pointed out the ugly Nissan Leaf that just passed
you.
Pushed
a flatbed around Costco, loaded with toilet paper, cases of soda, and oversized
boxes of cereal while complaining that the soda was inconveniently located in
the rear corner of the store for "no apparent reason." (The reason is quite
apparent, actually: Costco wants you to encounter as many sales as possible on
your way to the popular fizzy sugar.)
Stood
at the grocery store's self-scan checkout and complained you don't know the
code for peaches.
Sat
in a bathroom stall, begging your neighbor for a courtesy flush after giving
birth to a nostril singeing stank stew of your own.
Whining
to the fast-food drive thru clerk that people take too long to order at the
drive thru.





I get
it: Nobody likes change. People find it easier to adapt when they can pout,
stomp, and protest first. Isn't it better to expect change and embrace it? My
cats get it. The minute I change the litter, those two little fuckers race to
see who can be the first to soil it. They don't stare angrily at me while
filling out a comment card. Granted, I have exceptionally smart and tolerant
kitties, but still, even moronic mutts adapt to change.




So,
fellow Facebookers, let's take it easy on poor Zuckerberg and his minions. He
has billions of reasons to disregard your angst. Why waste it on him when you
can always complain about gas prices.

Not Gonna Do It

Hank has
been seeing Kim for a few weeks now. She wants to take it slowly. He wants sex,
regardless of the complications it may cause. Men. Kim likes Hank. If she didn't
see anything longer term she'd gladly bang his brains out and then stop
answering texts. Hank realizes he's thinking with his penis again. He can't
fight it—never could. Kim sets the boundaries.




"You can
come over, but we're not going to do anything so don't get any ideas."

"You
mean we're just going to lamppost all night?"

"I'm
talking about sex. We can play around, but no sex."

"I'm
fine with that," Hank said, fully aware that Kim may relent if he finds the right
spot.

"Are
you?"

"You
bet."

"Good."

"Just
for clarification sake, what does 'playing around' include?"

"You
know."

"I don't
and you don't want me guessing. I tend to have a liberal sense when it comes to
coitus."

"There
won't be any penetration."

"All
right."

"We can
kiss. I love kissing."

"Fine.
Can I grab your butt?"

"Yes, I
suppose."

"Excellent.
How about some cupping of the boobies?"

"Um …"

"Through
the shirt, naturally."

"OK,
fine."

"I
agree. Nothing too naughty can happen through clothing, right?"

"I
suppose."

"So,
might I surmise that I can rub you in the right way in any area as long as I
stay on the outside of your clothing?"

"Within
reason."

"What if
my hand slides between your jeans and your panties?"

"Fine,
but nothing under the panties."

"This is
getting you all excited, isn't it?"

"Not
really."

"Damn.
If, in the throes of passion, your top slides up a bit and I happen to drive by
a nipple or two, would you grant the pardon?"

"Probably."

"Good to
know. I'll grant the same pardon if my penis accidentally pokes you in the
tonsils."

"That's
not going to happen."

"Ah, I
kid. You should let me give you oral pleasure though. I've been reading up and
would love to try some new methods."

"I don't
know."

"Oh,
come on—be a sport."

"Let's
just see how the night goes."

"Fair
enough. Can I bring some wine?"

"Sure."

"Hey,
why don't we take a bubble bath? That would be fun. I can stop on the way over and
pick up a tub teabag."

"If we
do that, we'll probably end up doing it."

"You
think? I know you grow weak around my gun show. I'll make sure you behave
yourself."

"Sure,
you will."

"Then,
it's settled. The ground rules have been established and I expect you to follow
them or there may be an erection."

"Ejection."

"Ah, you
caught that, did ya?"

"Yep."

"Semantics.
I'll be over in a few, my love."

"See you
soon and remember to behave yourself."




How do
you think this all played out? I'd say there was a high chance of penetration
followed by a twinge of guilt, apologies, and probably a second coming.

I Swear

Where
did I pick up such a potty mouth? Phew. Some of the expletives I release make even
me blush. Naturally, I attract ladies with impeccable vocabulary and they're
none to impressed by my creative cussing.




Here's
my justification: I need to swear in order to release stress. If I hold it in,
I'm going to get a sour belly.




The most fearful Christians employ the
interesting method of changing an obvious curse into a pardon granted due to technicality.
You know the type—something awful happens like, say, Tim's reading glasses plop
into the public john when he bends over to re-tuck his willy and he lets it fly:
"God bless it."




He must
be joking. There's no way Tim wants God to bless the fact that he's going
fishing in his own puddle of urine, spit, and discarded chewing gum to retrieve
some cheaters, which cost under $10 at Costco for three. If there were a God,
he should peel back the mall roof and do as he was asked, thereby making Tim's
next commode trip culminate in a Blackberry splashdown.




When I
was ten-ish on the Little League mound, I often missed my target and
occasionally attempted to recalibrate by exclaiming, "Fuck!" It was ill advised
indeed, as my Sicilian father (who cursed like Richard Pryor on fire) didn't
have the hearing problems I have and threatened to feed me Ivory cakes until I repented.




Roll
forward forty years and I still can't throw a goddamn (sorry) strike. I
foolishly invited my latest dating-disaster-in-training to the game before
realizing she is very, very Christian and is bruised by words I find therapeutic.
I gave up hit number five in a row and yelled, "Fuck me! I suck. If I hit
another goddamn bat like that I'm retiring." I saw her nun's habit fray and
ignite. After the inning finally ended, I visited Sister Mary of the Silver-Tongued.




"I'm
sorry you had to see that."

"Well,
that wasn't very nice."

"I know.
That fucking guy can't even bat his weight and he hit a double."

"I was
referring to your cursing."

"Huh?"

"I'm
sorry, I just don't approve of taking the Lord's name in vain."

"Oh. I
apologize. Can I say 'fuck'?"

"That's
even worse."

"Jesus …
oops, sorry."

"That's
OK. Better luck next inning. Aren't you up next?"

"Ah,
yes. Be right back." I took a few steps, stopped, and pleaded, "Say, how about 'shit'?"

"Really?"

"Fine."




I
grabbed my helmet, took some practice swings, and stepped into the box. Both
the ump and the catcher remarked that my woman in the stands must have a complete
lack of self-esteem or serious vision problems to be dating me. I held in the
naughty word and watched strike one go by—a cock (not the swear-word type)
shot. I fouled off strike two and then was called out on a breaking pitch I
should have crushed. I had to say something.




"Fart
bubbles."

"What
did you just say?" the ump asked while removing his mask. I think the catcher
went into convulsions.

"Fart
bubbles," I repeated as a glanced toward my saintly guest, who did not nod the
approval I expected.

"I
should toss your sorry ass for that. What the fuck's wrong with you, son?"

"That pitch
was doo-doo," I said as I sulked back to the bench and took another
well-deserved beating from my teammates.




Gosh darn it.

Tug-o-Love

The decisive
moment arrives after a few dates when it's time to adjust your strategy.
Depending on how much you like the person, you should pursue, trail slightly,
or lay way back. Be careful though as you can scare away your prey if you're reckless.
Then again, if it is your intention to ditch the datee, your actions could inadvertently
create a love leech.





For
example, if you are frightened and falling for this person, your tendency to
overdo it could leave you sobbing. Therefore, men, if this is you, don't:

Buy
her jewelry.
Say
those three words.
Book
any fancy vacations for two.
Tell
her or any of your male friends.
Buy
her a puppy.
Introduce
her at a work function as your girlfriend.
Ask
her father anything other than which scotch he prefers.
Send
flowers to her workplace.
Tell
her she's the best lover you ever had.
Over-call
or text her.



Ladies
can play this game poorly as well. It's OK to tell your mom, sister, and best
friends "he might be the one," but for fuck's sake, don't tell him. Also, don't:





Leave
anything at his house other than a hair pull. That means no underwear,
toothbrushes, or lotions.
Show
up unannounced at one of his boys' nights out.
Discuss
finances.
Forget
to take your pill.
Touch
his penis while he's driving. Wait. OK, scratch that one.
Ask
strangers to take pictures of the happy couple, and if you already did that,
never freaking ever make said picture your mobile phone wallpaper or profile
picture.
Book
a couples massage.
Rearrange
his stuff or clean anything.
Ask
how many lovers he has had. You don't want to know and he'd lie anyway.
Email
him love quotes.







Trailing
the object of your desire is the most successful method. It keeps the other
person engaged without feeling pestered. Do this by:

Not
sending more than two unanswered texts or anything over 140 characters.
Maintaining
nights where you are unavailable.
Leaving
before breakfast.
Resisting
the urge to check his or her cell phone and keeping yours inaccessible.
Leaving
your online dating profiles visible, but inactive … for now.
Using
the "I was drunk" excuse to cover your ass when doing or saying something stupid
in the heat of the moment.
Suggesting
you each do your own thing and maybe meet up later.
Maintaining
radio silence while attending a bachelor/bachelorette party.
Insisting there is separation
of lovers and relatives.
Leaving
some of the ex's belongings around the house to be discovered.





Chasing
the next ex away is simple. Be sure to add a sprinkle of meanness into the
breakup so the person doesn't become that stray animal that follows you
everywhere. Here's a great line you can borrow:

"There's
no chemistry so if your phone doesn't ring, it's probably me."

Honeymooners

As I wade and drink margaritas on my Mexican vacation, I notice numerous
sparkles from the fingers and eyes of newlyweds. Meeting me and hearing what I
do is likely cause for consternation.



"Ah, I kid. It's all fiction, you
know?"

"But, it's based in reality."

"Perhaps."

"So, what advice would
you give newlyweds?"

"Enjoy it while it lasts."

"What?"

"Hate it while
it lasts?"

"It's supposed to last forever, isn't it?"

"I'm a statistics
man and the odds are it won't."

"Jesus."

"Well, you asked. Look, my point
is that you two should enjoy the heck out of what you have right now without
worrying about what's coming. Like this honeymoon (Ha, I just typo'd hineymoon
... I'm such a hiney.), you know you can't spend the rest of your lives here at
this magnificent pool bar, so enjoy it now and avoid thinking about what's
next."



The couples are cute reminders of a fun time for me over 20 years
ago. The brides all have odd looks on their faces--a combination of relief and
confusion. They buried themselves in wedding planning for a year or so and in a
flash it's over. Now what? All that remains of the special day are thank-you
notes and re-gifting. Some begin considering parenthood as the next destination.
Again, I remind them to concentrate on the trip, not the destination. In other
words, "Fuck a lot, while you both still enjoy it. Leave the baby making to the
storks."



The grooms are definitely more chilled (until they check the
bill). They have dessert, after dinner drinks, cigars, and post-pool quickies.
It's all good. Hm. The other brides around the pool are still distracting. Oh,
well. This French one over here is topless. Her perfect Hershey's kisses sit
high up on her breasts, making her a delicious dessert--an expensive one, should
he ever foolishly indulge. No, marriage hasn't taken away the instinct. That
ring doesn't cover his eyes. Yet, the cost of momentary weakness is staggering
and he's confident he can control himself. Good boy, for now.



Again, this
is all sarcastic silliness with a dab of reality.



This much is true and
I'll testify to such on a stack of Oreos: Concentrate on growing your
friendship, because if your marriage ends, the friendship will be the most
wonderful thing you get to keep--not your children, not your pets, not your
china, not your paycheck, not your memories. If you build that friendship into
love, it can last much longer than the sexual fires you've stoked. You can love
that person and forgive the way you would any close friend's misdeeds. You can
expose parts you'd be embarrassed to show others. You can be weak without fear
of being judged.



Enjoy the honeymoon. Squeeze every drop from it. Play
your role, but regularly remind your spouse of your admiration and appreciation.
Commit to creating happiness in each moment. Your spouse is your best friend
now. That friendship will get you both through the obstacle course you'll face
when the honeymoon ends.