Well it never ceases to amaze me that ever since little gals could squeeze the girls into their first push up bra, they have been on a man hunt, whoops boy hunt. Did God play a joke and at puberty swap our brains for boobies?
Apparently the divorce rate is 60% -- but really higher with many living unhappily ever after. Lots of nuts don't want to split the nuts so they are slugging it out to see who over doses first. Many a woman has sat in her garage, Lexus idling and three seconds from seeing the white light, said "no way that bastard isn't getting my wheels," and in she goes loaded for bear and another year. And by the look in her eyes, he just knew, this ain't over yet. Actually she should have driven those wheels to the nearest telephone booth, called Jay Nobel Daggart, Attorney at Law, and had the nuts split. Most people are slugging it out like in the War of the Roses. Do we all recall that movie? What a stupid woman -- let him have the house -- just get all the accessories. All houses are created equal. Want revenge -- take the accessories and your half of the cash. A good decorator is your best friend in divorce smudging out the Way We Were.
Anyhow it seems like puberty was the start of insanity? Before pubescence females and females -- females and males could sanely coexist in a seemingly civilized fashion. Kaboom the sprouting of the hair, it was like the incredible Hulk had emerged, the clothes tore apart and the parts were popping. The eyes turned red and the hunt was on. Normal thinking girls went immediately down to the local hardware to get a good size hunting knife for some serious back stabbing. The males read cover to cover Dr. Spock's Baby Book. Women went crazy and men remained lazy. And women, really fighting over one jackass that is forever remaining a teenager. Hogging the remote control. Basket balling his stinky socks into the hamper and missing the toilet seat. Buying you a new 9 iron than 9 red roses for your birthday. And whoops, golly gee didn't get you a woman driver. So the present went back to him in the long run. Surprise.
And here it comes, some other back stabbing, green eyed, siliconed breast popping, botoxed, guppy lipped female -- who used to play Monopoly with you on your Grandmas porch, got your Mr. Toilet Seat Up and now your Boardwalk. Well tip the game now, don't pass go and don't collect $200.
There you lay all night long making up the most stupid erotic fairy tales and punching the hell out of your pillow. Come on -- if he couldn't do the Antonio Banderas with you in your 1000 thread count sheets, now she's getting Porn Hunk of the Month. The only hunk that chick is getting is a hunk of Velveeta that he slapped on a plate, with a couple of saltines and is now calling it appetizers.
I vote we all go back to sanity girls. Men are not the golden Oscar, finest Pearls of the Orient, rare Diamonds of Africa -- they are at best, a prize in a box of Cracker Jacks. You know when you first got the prize you thought whoopee and then when you played with it a bit, it all fell apart and you said "rip off." Well, need I say more. Then you got your crazy glue and tried to glue it together and no matter how you tried, the dam thing just couldn't be fixed. Well its the same deal with men. They are flawed, non fixable and just because someone else picked up your prize and has purchased ten gallons of crazy glue, she can't get the dam thing to work or stay upright together either. In fact she is trying to find your phone number to see if you really do love him and want him back as he keeps telling her. Ditto the same fights over laziness, lateness, cheapness, and blankness, You know the blankness when you emotionally say "I've had such a tough day at work, I could quit" and he says "I have to go to the beer store, talk later?"
So why are intelligent women all fighting over a flawed prize???????
I say there is a solution, at least there was one before the breasts totally beat out the brains, it was called DATING. Yep. It was like you had the best of both worlds before the river of tears from all your fears.
Remember when you met Mr. Forever Young and he lived with his mother. He referred to her as the old bag, the whip cracker, the old lady and many other names that he since dubbed upon you. And you laughed at that though she lovingly did his laundry, lent him money to take you out, and even cleaned the car that he took you to see Two Weddings and A Funeral. And again you laughed when dear old Mom gave you those monogrammed towels at your shower that said His and His Old Lady's. Well you should have slid them back to her with a Card that said My Sympathies -- May You Find Each Other Again.
Yep, you have done this Muskrat Love thing once, maybe twice, maybe seven times like our Elizabeth. The kids are sick of it, the relatives are sick of it, because shacking up life feels like a dog chasing its tail. When you are single you are sad, and when you are married you are mad. Sad? Mad? Sad? Mad? Which emotion do you want, but you are going to get one of them. So I say why not pick dating -- its the glad between the sad and mad. You can walk past the dirty socks, pizza boxes, unopened mail, and cruise along home in your clean car to your princess palace. Better yet you can make friends with the other mad, sad females -- don't lie you know them -- and have them play at your house while you watch She Devil and the First Wive's Club. You can dress to the nines and thrive in date mode. Actually date mode drives men crazy.
In fact if you recall, in them good old days, the flowers came, he came on time, he smelled good, bought gifts and took you out to eat. He didn't even look over his shoulder at football when you were making out. He did everything humanly possibly to get himself resting on your fancy sheets and you then sent him home, in the cold night air, again to his Old Lady to take the crap.
So divorce hit you pretty hard --is it a gift from God or a free ticket back to Datesville?? Some see it like getting out of prison -- removing the orange jump suit, shedding the pounds and wearing pretty again; the unshackling of the ball and chain and to hell with cooking dinner at 5:00; the bye bye to the same space painted compromised beige and hello Blush Pink, and the best of the best, sianara to the snoring, the farting, the burping and any other array of bodily noises one human being can uncap in an eight hour sleep cycle and hello beauty rest.
So go figure -- the joy of dating? Give it some thought -- is marriage or shacking up a trick or a treat? One thing I do know is this -- Halloween -- the only night when the orange jump suit is considered stylish.
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