I recently married a wonderful man. A few of his friends who could be described as “anti-marriage” attended our wedding, but everything was perfect — 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: “Beth, I know it’s not gold, but you get the idea.” 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, “Rob,” had the box in several shots. My husband called Rob, who claimed “some girl had (him) hold it while she took a picture.” He couldn’t describe her at all — not even her hair color. My response: telling my husband Rob wasn’t welcome in our house, and that I would never socialize with him. Am I justified? Should my husband still talk to him?
The least “Rob” could’ve done is give you a real gold shovel so you could pawn it, since you married a man who’s unlikely to ever buy you Breakfast at Tiffany’s, but who can probably spring for an afternoon snack at that cheapo mall jewelry store, Claire’s.
Some people’s happiness really makes other people hurl. So, the guy’s “anti-marriage.” 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 isn’t quite the same as being, say, anti-war. But, let’s say it is in his tiny little mind. Why didn’t he print up signs — “Millions wed. How many more?” — 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, you’re giving the guy exactly what he wants: a job as the unofficial provider of the rain on your parade. It’s not like you’d ooh and ah upon discovering he gave you an attack editorial instead of a gift, but can’t 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 you’re so fabulous the guy couldn’t muster an insult that actually hit the mark, or you’re totally lame at gold digging. Hint: You’re 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 must’ve gotten as gifts — the remote-controlled napkin holder with WiFi, the sub-zero riding lawnmower/ lemon zester — the most powerful one of all could be that 85-cent plastic shovel; that is, if that’s all it takes to turn you into the cliché nagging wife handing down the banned buddies list to her henpecked husband. Go ahead, tell your husband what you won’t stand for. Just leave what he won’t stand for up to him. If you married a good guy, he probably won’t be feeling too chummy toward ole Robbo. In fact, it’s likely that yet another wedding has turned out to be an elaborately catered prelude to divorce — not of the bride and groom but of the groom and his alleged friend. I’m 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.
Between 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!
Dating isn’t a form of philanthropy. Sexual attraction isn’t polite and all, “Lovely weather we’re having today, Mrs. Peabody.” It’s nasty, grabby and raw. And that’s not something you can fake. The guy’s 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 DD’s bouncing by to make him “reconsider everything.” He has been playing a game — the one where size shouldn’t matter. Now, it’s time for him to move into the real world — perhaps by giving an honest answer to your question, “How many minutes a day can he spend fantasizing about big breasts?” Uh … how many minutes are there in a day? Well, probably that many, plus whatever he can pull from leap year.