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The Advice Goddess
Amy Alkon |
I recently married a wonderful man. A few of his friends who could be described as ìanti-marriageî attended our wedding, but everything was perfect ó until the next day when we opened our gifts. Inside one box, badly wrapped in gold paper, was a little white plastic shovel and a note: ìBeth, I know itís not gold, but you get the idea.î Someone was calling me a gold digger! FYI, my husband makes a modest salary. I make slightly less. When we viewed our wedding video, one of the anti-marriage guys, ìRob,î had the box in several shots. My husband called Rob, who claimed ìsome girl had (him) hold it while she took a picture.î He couldnít describe her at all ó not even her hair color. My response: telling my husband Rob wasnít welcome in our house, and that I would never socialize with him. Am I justified? Should my husband still talk to him?
†ó Outraged
The least ìRobî couldíve done is give you a real gold shovel so you
could pawn it, since you married a man whoís unlikely to ever buy you
Breakfast at Tiffanyís, but who can probably spring for an afternoon
snack at that cheapo mall jewelry store, Claireís.
Some peopleís happiness really makes other people hurl. So, the guyís
ìanti-marriage.î Frankly, so am I. But, when friends feel differently,
I somehow manage to get my happily unmarried self to their weddings,
carrying only a slim satin purse, and leave my soapbox in the car.
Being anti-marriage isnít quite the same as being, say, anti-war. But,
letís say it is in his tiny little mind. Why didnít he print up signs ó
ìMillions wed. How many more?î ó and enlist Cindy Sheehan to join him
in picketing the church? Well, I guess some men stand on principle, and
others prefer to sit down (all the better to enjoy the free dinner and
open bar).
At the moment, youíre giving the guy exactly what he wants: a job as
the unofficial provider of the rain on your parade. Itís not like youíd
ooh and ah upon discovering he gave you an attack editorial instead of
a gift, but canít you find your way to a few laughs at his pathetic
expense? This leaping loser is actually accusing you of being a gold
digger. Now, either youíre so fabulous the guy couldnít muster an
insult that actually hit the mark, or youíre totally lame at gold
digging. Hint: Youíre supposed to mow down the guy with the Ford Focus
to get to the guy in the Ferrari, not the other way around.
Of all the outrageous appliances you mustíve gotten as gifts ó the
remote-controlled napkin holder with WiFi, the sub-zero riding
lawnmower/lemon zester ó the most powerful one of all could be that
85-cent plastic shovel; that is, if thatís all it takes to turn you
into the clichÈ nagging wife handing down the banned buddies list to
her henpecked husband. Go ahead, tell your husband what you wonít stand
for. Just leave what he wonít stand for up to him. If you married a
good guy, he probably wonít be feeling too chummy toward ole Robbo. In
fact, itís likely that yet another wedding has turned out to be an
elaborately catered prelude to divorce ó not of the bride and groom but
of the groom and his alleged friend. Iím guessing your husband will be
big about the breakup and grant the little man custody of the little
shovel; ideally, without giving into the desire to deviate his septum
in the process.
A rack and a hard place
This is for the guy fixated on big breasts. How would he feel if his
girlfriend were fixated on his inadequacies? Is he playing a game or in
the real world? How many minutes a day can he spend fantasizing about
big breasts? He should think about what he wants to do with a woman the
rest of the time! ó Disgusted
Dating isnít a form of philanthropy. Sexual attraction isnít polite and
all ìLovely weather weíre having today, Mrs. Peabody.î Itís nasty,
grabby and raw. And thatís not something you can fake. The guyís
already tried your line of thinking, which is what got him longing to
long for the mosquito bites in the bra of the woman he loves, but being
distraught that it takes only a pair of DDís bouncing by to make him
ìreconsider everything.î He has been playing a game ó the one where
size shouldnít matter. Now, itís time for him to move into the real
world ó perhaps by giving an honest answer to your question, ìHow many
minutes a day can he spend fantasizing about big breasts?î Uh† ... how
many minutes are there in a day? Well, probably that many, plus
whatever he can pull from leap year.
ï
Got a problem? Write Amy Alkon, 171 Pier Ave, No. 280, Santa Monica, CA
90405, or e-mail
This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
(www.advicegoddess.com).
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