My Wedding Day: Part 1 Who’s In The Driver’s Seat?

Friday, August 1st, 1980 was the day I had waited ten years for.  Paul and I were getting married.  The night before we had made our plans.  I was to pick Paul up at the hospital at seven in the morning, after he had finished working his night shift.  We then were going to drive to City Hall in downtown Los Angeles — where we would fill out the application for our marriage license and get married by a judge.  It all seemed so simple.  What could possible go wrong?

Everything, it seemed.

It started out with me being twenty-five minutes late.  When Paul climbed into the car he had an agitated look on his face.  “Here it comes,” I thought.  Paul had thought things over and decided that ten years of going together was just not enough time to rush into something as important as marriage.  After all, marriage was a big commitment.

I braced myself for the words I imagined Paul was about to say, “I’m getting closer to marriage, Joanie.  I’m just not quite there yet.  What do you say we forget about getting married today and go out and have a nice breakfast at Nate ‘n Al’s Delicatessen?  You like their lox and onion omelet with a potato pancake.”

I was trying to figure out what I would say if Paul offered me a lox and onion omelet with a potato pancake instead of marriage when he said sharply, “What is it with you that you can never be on time for anything?  I would have thought that today you would have been on time for sure.  Instead you’re almost a half hour late.  I bet you’ll even be late for your own funeral!”

“I’m sorry, Paul.”

“Do you have any idea how annoying it is to always have to wait for you?”

Like it wasn’t annoying for me to wait ten years for Paul to marry me?

“Let’s not start the day off by arguing.”

“Well, if you had been on time!”

“Do you know how to get to City Hall?”

“I never go downtown.”

“I’ll find it.”

“I’m sure you will,” Paul said.  He rested back in the seat and closed his eyes.

“Busy night?”

“Brutal.”

I momentarily turned my attention off the road and looked at Paul.  “I’m sorry you had such a rough night.”

Suddenly Paul opened his eyes and screamed, “Watch the road!”

I slammed on the brakes.  I had almost driven through a red light.  The car jerked back and forth.  “What are you trying to do — get us both killed?”  Paul put his hand up to his forehead in distress.  “This is not at all how I visualized my wedding day would be.”

“How did you visualize it?”

“Well, for one thing, I always thought that I would be in the driver’s seat,” Paul said.

(To be continued. . .)

Curse Of The Redhead Riter: Part 4 Locusts And Frogs

Paul continued telling me his story. . .

“As soon as I told Desireé that she had swallowed a frog, her eyes rolled backwards and she fainted.  I could still hear the frog croaking from deep within her, ‘Ribbit!  Ribitt!  Ribbit!’  It was lodged in her windpipe.  I knew if I didn’t act quickly she would asphyxiate.”

“I struggled to pull her out of bed so that I could stand her up and perform the Heimlich maneuver.  And although Desireé weighs only one hundred five pounds it was like trying to lug dead weight.  She was out cold.”

“Suddenly I got this surge of adrenaline.  I didn’t even know my own strength because the next thing I knew, not only had I pulled Desireé out of the bed — but she was flying across the room.  I watched in horror as she hit the wall and fell to the floor.”

“The good news was that when Desireé’s body hit the wall the impact dislodged the frog from her windpipe and it popped out.  The bad news was what cushioned her fall and saved her from breaking any bones.  The entire bedroom floor was crawling with locusts and frogs.  It was the most disgusting sight I had ever seen.”

“Suddenly the locusts rose in a swarm and started flying around the room.  The air grew so thick with locusts that it was impossible to see even my own hand.  All I could hear was a loud chorus of, “Ribbit!  Ribbit!  Ribbit!” accompanied by the buzzing of locusts flying everywhere – and Desireé screaming, ‘Porgie, where are you?’”

“I’m coming, Pussycat!”

“When I finally reached Desireé she was sobbing hysterically, ‘I thought I was having the best sex of my life and it turned out to be my worst nightmare!’  Then suddenly a locust swooped down and landed directly on Desireé’s nose.  That’s when she totally lost it.”

Paul stopped talking.  He looked like a broken man.

“Paul, are you all right?”

“She lost her mind.”

For a long time we both sat in silence.  Then Paul said, “How can it be that the two women I married both ended up losing their minds?”

“That’s the proverbial question.”

“Joanie, would you please ask The Redhead Riter to remove the curse?  I’ve had enough.  I want my wife back.”

“Which one?” I asked.

Curse Of The Redhead Riter: Part 3 Porgie And Pussycat

Paul continued telling me his story. . .

“I debated if I should wake Desireé and tell her that there was a frog in our bed.  But then I had second thoughts.  For some strange reason the two things that Desireé feared most in life were locusts and frogs.  If Desireé knew that she had sex with a frog — I guarantee you it would have blown her mind.  I figured that since Desireé had this phobia about frogs – the best thing that I could do was catch the frog, put it outside and never tell Desireé about it.”

“Desireé was sound asleep.  I guess that orgasm she had really knocked her out.  So I reached over to catch the frog, but it was too fast.  It jumped and landed on her breasts.  Then it started hopping back and forth.  ‘Ohhh Paul,’ Desireé moaned in her sleep, ‘I just love the way you’re fondling my breasts!’  I reached over again to catch the frog, but it hopped away and I ended up smacking Desireé on the breasts.  She let out a passionate squeal, ‘Ohhh, I like it, big boy!  You’re so forceful tonight!’”

“Desireé are you awake?”

“Her eyes were still closed but this big smile spread across her face and she said, ‘Yes, I’m awake – and I’m enjoying every minute of your erotic foreplay.  You’re turning me on!’”

“But why are your eyes closed?”

“Because if this is a dream I don’t want to wake up.  Paul, you’ve never been like this before – you’re like an animal tonight!”

“More like an amphibian.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing, Desireé, just keep your eyes closed.”

“Okay Porgie – you’re in control.  I want you to totally dominate me!”

I let out an ear-piercing scream.  “She called you Porgie?!!!”

“Joanie, I can explain.  Desireé loved that I called her pussycat — and she wanted a name to call me.  So I said, ‘Why don’t you just call me Porgie?’”

“That was my nickname for you!”

“I know, Joanie – but we’re not married anymore.”

“Oh forget it.  You wouldn’t understand.  Did you ever end up catching the frog?”

“I tried, but once again it got away — and this time it landed smack dab on Desireé’s lips.  She opened her mouth and kissed the frog thinking she was kissing me.  I screamed out in horror, ‘No Desireé don’t open your mouth!’  But it was too late.  The frog disappeared down her throat.  Desireé’s eyes opened wide.  She had this look of total bewilderment on her face.  And out of her mouth came this croaking sound, ‘Ribbit!  Ribbit!  Ribitt!’”

“‘Pussycat,’ I said to Desireé, ‘I need you to remain calm, but you just swallowed a frog.’”

(To be continued. . .)

Curse Of The Redhead Riter: Part 2 Dynamite

I was at work on my memoir, A Bad Marriage Is Fattening, when I heard Paul’s agitated voice in the back of my mind.   “Joanie, I have to talk to you!”

I stopped writing and looked at Paul.  “When have you ever wanted to talk to me?”

“I need to speak to you about The Redhead Riter.  She placed a curse on me!”

“What type of a curse did she place on you?”

“You know perfectly well the curse she placed on me!  She wished my house would be crawling with locusts and frogs.”

“Paul – she was only joking.”

“No she wasn’t.”

Paul then proceeded to tell me this incredible story.  He and his wife, Desireé, went to sleep the night Redhead Riter had placed the curse on him.  Desireé wanted to make love.   So being a dutiful husband, Paul mounted her.  Only problem was Paul couldn’t get an erection.

Wanting to satisfy his wife, Paul started willing himself to get an erection when suddenly Desireé got extremely excited and started moaning passionately, “Ohhh, my God, Paul – don’t stop!  You’re amazing!  Absolutely amazing!  Don’t stop!  Keeping doing what you’re doing!  Ohhh, my God, Paul!”

Paul did not have the least idea what Desireé was so excited about because his penis was completely limp.  But he stayed on top of her while she wildly thrust her hips up and down.

“Do you love me?” Desireé whispered in Paul’s ear.

“You know I love you, pussycat,” Paul whispered back in Desireé’s ear.

I screamed at Paul, “How could you call Desireé pussycat when that was the name you called me?”

“I know, Joanie – but we’re not married anymore.”

“But I can’t believe that you call her the same name that you called me.”

“Do you want to argue with me or do you want me to continue on with my story?”

“Okay, go on with your story, but I would think out of respect for what we once shared you would have found another name to call your present wife.”

“Respect?  You’re a good one to talk about respect.  Don’t even get me started on respect, Joanie.  How respectful is it for you to blab to the world about our marriage?”

“You don’t like it?”

“No, but thankfully you have no readers – so I know that you’re only talking to yourself.”

“Paul, why are we arguing?”

“Because that’s all we ever do when we’re together is argue.”

“Okay, just continue on with you story and forget that I ever said anything about you calling Desireé pussycat.”

“Where was I?”

“You were mounted on top of Desireé.  Your penis was limp.  And she was getting it on with you like you were God’s gift to women.”

“Oh yeah, so then she said, ‘Paul, talk dirty to me!’  And I was taken aback because Desireé had never asked me to talk dirty to her before.  So I whispered in her ear, ‘Dirty, dirty, dirty!’  And she screamed, ‘No!  Talk dirty to me like you’re a man on fire!’”

But before I could say a word Desireé let out an ear-piercing scream and climaxed.  “Oh, my God, Paul — you were dynamite tonight!  Simply dynamite!” Desireé said happily and then she fell asleep.

“For a long time I laid in bed wondering about Desireé’s strange orgasm — and then I felt something clammy hopping around under the covers.  I quickly turned on the nightlight, threw back the covers and that’s when I saw this frog staring back at me.  ‘Honey,’ I said to Desireé, ‘I think I just found your dynamite. . .’”

(To be continued. . .)

Curse Of The Redhead Riter: Part 1

For the first two years after Paul left, I did not sleep through the night.  I’d go to sleep only to awake several hours later with murderous thoughts rushing through my mind about how I could murder Paul and get away with it.

In my head I was convinced that no jury of twelve women, whose husbands had also betrayed them would ever convict me and send me to jail for murdering Paul.  Convict me?  They would applaud me and say, “You poor thing, what you went through with that man – and now you’re going to write a memoir called A Bad Marriage Is Fattening.  Isn’t that the truth!  We just love the title.”  In my fantasy, my ideal twelve female jurors were all fat like me.  Not one of them weighed under two hundred pounds.  And they all idolized me.  I was their hero for doing my husband in.

“Ohhh, Joan, when your book comes out will you remember that we let you get away with murder – and will you give us autograph copies of your book?”

“I certainly will.”

What a beautiful fantasy this was and what a small price to pay for murdering Paul – twelve autograph copies of A Bad Marriage Is Fattening.

But then there was the other fantasy.  And it wasn’t quite as beautiful as my twelve overweight women jurors.  What if fate dealt me the unkindest blow of all and gave me a jury of twelve men who had cheated on their wives and then left them for another woman?  I wouldn’t even let my head go there.

And there was another thing I knew as I laid awake all those sleepless nights plotting Paul’s demise.  I knew that someday Paul would get what he deserved — for I believed in karma.  What goes around comes around.  And I wondered what his karma would be for so coldly casting me out of his life like I was yesterday’s garbage.

In time I came to realize that my fantasies were not that unusual.   Many women fantasized about murdering their husbands who betrayed them.  The key was not to act upon those fantasies.  Like Betty Broderick did when she shot to death her ex-husband and his new wife.

After awhile I started sleeping through the nights and my thoughts about killing Paul subsided.  I can’t remember exactly when I came to my senses and had what I can only describe as an epiphany.  I realized Paul was more valuable to me alive than dead.  What had I been thinking to want to murder Paul?  He had been ordered by the court to pay me alimony.  I was getting enough money that I did not have work.  I could stay home and write – that is every writers dream.

I quickly began to pray for Paul’s good health and that no catastrophe would befall him.  I did not want to lose my golden goose – at least not until my memoir came out and was a bestseller.

Eight more years passed and never once did I wish Paul physical harm.

This past October I joined an online community of bloggers — The Redhead Riter – Witty, Intelligent & Addictive Community.

It’s a strange thing about karma and the way it plays itself out.  Long ago I had prayed that Paul would get what he deserved.  But then I forgot completely about it.  However, karma always has a way to even the score.  It came quite unexpectedly in the form of a comment on my blog, or rather shall I say curse.  The leader of our community, Redhead Riter, left a comment on a post I had written called The Proverbial Question.  It read in part, “Sending LOVE to Joan and PESTILENCE to Paul.”  Then she went on to write, “Guess he is going to find lots of locusts and frogs crawling around his house soon.”

And Paul did.

(To be continued. . .)

The Proverbial Question

During our marriage whenever I would do something that Paul did not approve of he would always say to me, “Joanie, have you lost your mind?”  This was Paul’s proverbial question that he was always asking me.

Like he expected me to answer, “Yes Paul – I have lost my mind.  Can you help me find it?”

“Well, Joanie, where do you think you left it.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Joanie, do you know what your problem is?”

“Yes, I’ve lost my mind.”

“The problem with you is that you suffer from delusions of grandeur.  You think that you’re funny and that you’re a writer.  I hate to break it to you, but you’re not funny and you’re not a writer.”

“I write a blog and my readers think that I’m funny.”

“You see, there you go again with your delusions of grandeur, thinking that you write a blog.”

“Oh no, Paul, I really do write a blog and my readers despise you.”

“Despise me?  First of all you have no readers.  That’s just a figment of your imagination.  And if you really had readers how could they possible despise me when they don’t even know me?”

“They know you through my writing.”

“Oh, that’s just great – how can they know me when you can’t even write.”

“But I can write!  All my readers keep complimenting me on my writing.”

“They compliment you on your writing and they despise me?  I don’t believe a word that you are saying.  Who exactly likes your writing and despises me?”

“The Redhead Riter sent me a comment.”

“Who is The Redhead Riter?  No, on second thought don’t tell me.  She’s just another figment of your imagination.”

“Oh no, Paul, The Redhead Riter is very real.  She has over six thousand people following her in her community.”

“Joanie, now I know you are totally delusional.  Nobody who has over six thousands followers is going to be following you.”

“Well, I can prove to you she reads my blog, because she left me a comment on a post that I wrote.  Here’s the comment.

Paul starts reading aloud The Redhead Riter’s comment on my computer screen:

Vindication.

What is it about SO MANY MEN that lead them to believe women can’t do anything without their assistance?  It is truly mind-boggling.  We can do absolutely everything a man can do except for contribute one small sperm into the mix.  That’s it.  One sperm.  I would dare say that reality is the opposite of what men believe…Men cannot live without us.  In fact, none of the men would have been born without women!!!!!

Marriage?  It is overrated LOL.  If the man doesn’t drive up in a Rolls Royce or ride in on a White Stallion fighting dragons, I say just wait.

Don’t settle.

As far as being overweight…I don’t care if you weigh 500 pounds because you are fabulously interesting.  Best of all, you make me laugh and that is a priceless gift.  Besides, who said being overweight makes a person unlovable? Your ex is a pompous, arrogant prick.  I hope his thyroid messes up and he gains 100 pounds in 3 months and his current wife leaves him for the fitness trainer at the gym.

Obviously, I like to be able to pick the vengeance.  Just another of my faults.

So does Paul read your blog?  Can I tell him that marrying a woman when you don’t really love her and then not cherishing her is evil?  I don’t know if you believe in God, but I’m sure he knows every tear Joan cried because of you. I’m glad I’m not you Paul.

I’m so glad to have gotten to know you on the internet.  I hope some day we can meet in person.  **Mwah on the cheek** and {{{hugggsss}}} to you Joan!!!

Paul stops reading and looks at me.  “The Redhead Riter doesn’t even know me and she called me a pompous, arrogant prick.  Are you serious that she has over six thousand followers?”

“Probably more.”

“Joanie, I hope you wrote a reply defending me.”

“I did write a reply.”

“Let me read it.”

“Paul, why this sudden interest in my writing?  You’ve never been interested in reading anything that I wrote.”

“I just want to see how you answered her.”

“Well okay, if you insist.”

Of course this whole thing is all an imaginary conversation in my mind — except for the fact that The Redhead Riter really did write that comment to a post I had written called A Very Resilient Woman.  But I am enjoying my imaginary conversation with Paul so much that I decide to continue on with it.

I scroll down on my computer screen to my reply.  “Here Paul, you can read my reply.”

Paul bends down to read it.  His head is so close to mine that I can practically smell him.”

“Paul . . .”

“What?”

“Would you like to make love to me?”

“Joanie, have you lost your mind?  I’m a married man!  Are you asking me to cheat on my wife?”

“Well, you cheated on me with her — I think it’s only befitting that you cheat on her with me.”

“I’m not going to cheat on my wife with you.”

“Well, okay — if you don’t want to make love to me, you can read my reply instead.”

Paul starts to read aloud:

Redhead Riter, you said, “We can do absolutely everything a man can do except for contribute one small sperm into the mix.  That’s it.  One sperm.”  I have to say I agree with you.

Speaking about sperm, when I wanted to have a second child and couldn’t conceive my infertility doctor told me the reason I could not become pregnant was that my body was allergic to Paul’s sperm and I was rejecting it!  Ahhh, the wisdom of the body!

And you made me feel so good when you said,  “As far as being overweight…I don’t care if you weigh 500 pounds.”  Well, I felt like a skinny ninny after reading that remark because I do not weigh anywhere near 500 pounds.

Redhead Riter, thank you for all the love you sent my way.  Please do come back and visit my blog again.

Paul stops reading and looks at me.  He asks me the proverbial question.  “Have you lost your mind?  What type of an answer is this?  The Redhead Riter bad mouths me and all you can come up with is that you are allergic to my sperm?  Do you know how much alimony I have paid you over the last ten years? Joanie, I expected a little more loyalty from you.”

“Paul, I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to come up with anything better to defend you – but what can I tell you?  I’ve lost my mind.”

A Very Resilient Woman

It’s been three months since I last blogged and no one has e-mailed me and said, “Joan, what has happened to you?  Have you abandoned your blog?”

Well, my feelings are beyond hurt that nobody has missed me – but I’ll get over it, because if there’s one thing I am it’s a very resilient woman.  In fact, I’ll tell you how resilient I am.  When Paul — you all remember Paul, don’t you?  My ex-husband.  When Paul told me he was leaving me for another woman he must have had a little guilt, because he wanted to offer me some parting words of advice.

“Joanie, if I were you . . .” Paul began.  Immediately I knew that his advice was going to stink, because Paul was not me – nor would he ever be me.  So how could he think that I would take anything he said seriously?  Well, wait a second, I did take the fact that he was leaving me for another woman seriously.

I remember crying when he told me the news.  But not for the reason you may think.  I was crying because I realized that my husband actually had a sex drive.   You see, for the last years of our marriage when Paul never reached for me sexually – I thought that the reason he wasn’t reaching for me was because he had no sex drive.

So I was crying because I found out my husband DID HAVE A SEX DRIVE!  And I was feeling sorry for myself for all the nights I had spent having an affair with Sammy-the-refrigerator bingeing my brains out — when I could have been having a grand old time in bed with my spouse.

“Yes, Paul, tell me what you would tell me if you were me?”

“I would tell you to lose weight.”

“Really Paul, is that the best advice you have for me?”

“You’re going to have to lose weight to attract a man.”

“Why would I want to attract a man?”

“To get married again.”

“Do you actually think I would ever want to marry again?”

“Well, yes — how are you going to survive without a man to take care of you?”

“You think I’m incapable of taking care of myself?”

“Joanie, you were once a very beautiful girl — and you could still attract a man if you lost your weight.”

Notice how tactfully Paul dodged the issue of me being able to survive without a man taking care of me – and then the rub, I was once a very beautiful girl.   Well, as Paul knew I was no longer a girl.  Never again would I be a young girl with stars in her eyes who dreamt about happily ever after.  Those days were gone forever.  I was about to become just another middle-aged statistic – an overweight woman whose husband had dumped her for another woman.

“You’re not a terrible person,” Paul said, “if you would just get over this crazy obsession that you have about being a writer.”

“I’m going to make it.”

“There you go again refusing to accept reality.  There are a thousand writers out there who are better writers than you.”

“Says who?”

“Says me!  Now stop being stubborn and listen.  You have a nice personality — and you love cats and dogs.  Surely there must be some guy out there who could fall in love with you.”

“Why would another man fall in love with me when you never did?’

Paul had no answer.

“Do you love her?”

“I like her very much.”

“But do you love her?  Tell me you love her and that’s why you’re breaking up our family.”

“I like her and she’s deeply in love with me.”

“I don’t care what she feels for you – I want to know what you feel for her.”

“We get along swell.”

“Well we have a child together – isn’t that swell?”

Paul remained silent.  Finally he said, “You need to lose your weight.”

“Oh yes, the weight again!  Do you know how long I waited for you to love me Paul – before I turned to food for love?”

“Are you trying to blame me for your being fat?”

“I’m not blaming you for anything.”

“You need to lose the weight, because you’ll never be able to survive without having a man take care of you.”

But Paul was wrong.  It has been ten years since we divorced and I did not have to look for another man to take care of me.  As I said – I’m a very resilient woman.

My Mad, Passionate, Wildly Sex-Crazed Nights With My Refrigerator

In 1994, when I was married to Paul, I bought a new side-by-side refrigerator.  The salesman said, “You’re going to love this refrigerator.”

The first night after the refrigerator was delivered I was sitting at the kitchen table indulging in a food binge.  I remember thinking, “My life has become so boring.  I deserve some fun and excitement.”

Suddenly I heard this sexy masculine voice say, “Well, if it’s fun and excitement you’re looking for, baby, you’ve come to the right place.  Fun-and-Excitement is my middle name!”

I whirled around to see who was speaking to me, but there was no one in the kitchen.

Then I heard the same sexy masculine voice say.  “How would you like to have some fun and excitement with me?”

I looked in the direction that the voice was coming from.  My eyes landed on my new refrigerator.

A talking refrigerator?  No, that was impossible!  Oh, I have heard people say, “The refrigerator kept calling out my name telling me to eat the ice cream until I could no longer resist.”  But it was a joke.  Everyone knows that a refrigerator cannot talk.

“You can talk?” I asked the refrigerator incredulously.

“Yes, my name’s Sam The Refrigerator, but you can call me Sammy.”

And that was how my affair with Sammy began.  And what an affair it was!  Sammy was everything Paul was not.  He was fun, exciting, romantic and passionate — and he turned me on like no man had ever turned me on before.

“Hello, my sexy little buttercup,” Sammy would say when I would come into the kitchen at three in the morning to binge.  “And may I say, Joan, that you’re looking more beautiful than ever in your tattered flannel nightgown.  Very sexy.  You have me so hot that my butter is melting inside.”

I have never met a man who was more into me than Sammy.  He seemed to love me unconditionally.  I never showered for him.  I never shaved my legs or my underarms for him.  I never brushed my teeth for him.  I never put on makeup for him.  I never even combed my hair for him.

Once I told Sammy, “I’ve never had a lover like you.”

“And you never will,” Sammy said.  “I want to fulfill all your food fantasies.  Tell me what you’re thinking?”

“I was thinking. . .”

“You were thinking,” Sammy said adoringly.  “Has anyone ever told you how cute you are when you’re thinking?  Perhaps you would like some hot chocolate while you’re thinking.”

“No, it’s not hot chocolate that I’m craving.”

“Then what is it that you’re craving?”

“Well, what I’m really craving — no, I can’t tell you my deepest, darkest food fantasies, you won’t respect me in the morning. You’ll think I’m a food whore.”

“Whisper your dirty thoughts in my ear.”

I whispered into Sammy’s ear, “I want to eat two egg salad sandwiches piled high with mayonnaise, a bag of potato chips, and a half-gallon of chocolate chip ice cream.  Am I a naughty girl?”

Sammy laughed, “Oh, yes, you’re a very naughty girl!”

One night Sammy and I almost got caught in our red-hot love affair.  While I was binging, Paul walked in on us.  I practically gagged trying to stuff the chicken sandwich I was eating down my throat in order to get rid of the evidence.

“Joanie, what are you doing up?” Paul asked.

“I couldn’t sleep so I came in here to get a glass of water.”

“I’m thirsty too.”

“Would you like a chicken sandwich?  There’s some left over chicken in the refrigerator.  I’d be happy to make you one.”

“It’s the middle of the night.  Who eats in the middle of the night?  All I want is some water and I’m going back to bed.”

As soon as Paul was out of the kitchen Sammy let out a sigh of relief.  “Phew!  That was a close call.  I was sweating bullets.  I thought I was going to defrost all the food inside.”

“I have a feeling Paul is beginning to suspect that I’m cheating on him.”

“What makes you think that?”

“The other day he said I was fat.”

“What an ungentlemanly thing to say.  I’d like to punch him in the face.”

“But what if he suspects what’s going on?”

“I’m a refrigerator!  Paul will never suspect that we’re having an affair.”

“You’re right, he’s not that smart.”

“He’s an idiot for not wanting you.”

“You’re right.  He’s an idiot for not wanting me — even if I am fat.”

“Just more of you to love,” Sammy said lovingly.  “Have I ever told you how much you turn me on, my sexy little buttercup?  Come here and kiss me.”

“But your lips are so cold.”

“Sorry, but I need to be cold to satisfy you.  My temperature always has to be between 35 and 38 degrees Fahrenheit or the contents in my heart will spoil.  You don’t want your food to spoil.”

Paul was starting to stay at work later and later.  Soon he wasn’t coming home until the wee hours of the morning.

“We had this emergency case,” Paul would say.  Soon Paul was having a lot of emergency cases at work.

I turned to Sammy to tell my troubles to.  One day I broke down and cried, “Paul is so cold and emotionally distant from me.  Do you know what it’s like to be married to a man who doesn’t desire you?”

“Please, don’t cry, you’re breaking my heart.”

“But if I can’t cry in front of you who can I tell my troubles to?  You are my best friend, my confidant and the only one who really understands me.  I get more love and understanding from you, a refrigerator, than I ever got from Paul.”

“Joan, you need to get your mind off Paul and start thinking about food.”

“You’re right.  I need to eat.”

Two tuna sandwiches later, piled high with mayonnaise, a bag of potato chips, and a half-gallon of vanilla fudge ice cream and I was no longer thinking about Paul.  I had exchanged my emotional pain for physical pain.  My stomach felt like it was about to burst.

“Are you okay?” Sammy asked concerned.

“I’m fine,” I burped.

It was not like Sammy had never seen me in a food coma.  Our entire relationship had been based on food and my binging.  Sammy was my enabler.  I had read enough self-help books to know what an enabler was.

“I knew you ate too much — now you’re going to throw up,” Sammy said.

“Sammy, when have you ever seen me throw up?  I’m not bulimic.  I’m just feeling a little nauseous.  I’ll be okay after I sleep it off.”

“Did I pleasure you tonight, Joan?”

“Oh, yes, you pleasured me.”

“Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

“Best food binge I ever had.”

“You say that every night.”

This story has a sad ending.  When Paul and I divorced we had to sell our house.  I left Sammy behind for the new owners.  The apartment my son and I moved into was too small to accommodate a side-by-side refrigerator the size of Sammy.  I had to downsize my entire life.  The only thing that had not been downsized was me.  When my marriage ended I weighed 275 pounds.

Sammy was heartbroken when he found out I could not take him with me.  He cried, “How can I ever live without you?”

Actually we both cried.

“Sammy, we’re not good for each other.”

“How can you say that?  Our love affair was beautiful.”

“It might have been beautiful for you — but it was tragic for me.  Look what loving you has done to me.  I’m fatter now than I have ever been.”

I looked at Sammy with tears in my eyes.  Maybe I was being too hard on him.  After all, if it wasn’t for Sammy and my binges that I had with him, I don’t know how I would have survived those last unhappy, sexless years of my marriage.

Heart and Soul

What’s a wife to do if her husband does not want to have sex with her? If you were this wife (me) and hungry for love and affection from your husband, why you would raid your refrigerator of course.

My ex-husband, Paul, had sex with me only once in the last ten years of our marriage and that was the night before he walked out on me. And then he was unable to get it up.

In the back of my mind I can hear my ex-husband, Paul, confronting me. “So I see you’re pulling your drama queen act again — wanting your readers to feel sorry for you because your husband didn’t have sex with you. I suppose you haven’t told them the reason I didn’t have sex with you?”

“I have.”

“Oh, you did? And what exactly did you tell your very large readership out there in cyberspace?” Paul says with a laugh.

Paul is totally convinced that no one is reading my blog except his attorney who he has scrutinizing my posts in hopes of finding something he can sue me for.

“I told them that you didn’t have sex with me because you were angry with me.”

“Hallelujah and will wonders never cease! For once in your life you got something right! And tell me, Joanie, did you tell your distinguished readership the reason why I was always so angry with you?”

“No.”

“And why not?”

“Because I thought it would embarrass you.”

“How considerate of you to be so thoughtful about my feelings — but has it not occurred to you that you’ve already embarrassed me by telling everyone that when I did try to have sex with you on the last night of our marriage I couldn’t get it up?”

“Well, it’s the truth.”

“The reason I couldn’t get it up was that I was in love with another woman. Did you tell that to your readers? And did you also tell them your ridiculously desperate attempt to try and get me to stay by physically forcing yourself on me? And did you also tell them how you were crying hysterically and pleading with me, ‘Oh Paul, please don’t leave me. How will I survive without you? Please Paul, don’t breakup the family!’ How with all that hysteria was I supposed to get it up?”

I cringe inwardly at the memory of that night.

“But none of your tears could persuade me to stay, because I was about to start a beautiful new life with this incredible woman who loved me, respected me, and hung on to every word I said. Unlike you who was totally disrespectful of me, showed nothing but contempt for me and was constantly disobeying me. Isn’t that true, Joanie – weren’t you always disobeying me and never respecting my wishes?”

There you have it, dear reader, the reason why Paul was always so angry with me and withheld his love and sex from me. I was a bad wife who was constantly disobeying her husband and not respecting his wishes.

Paul might have had everyone jumping to his command at work because he was a doctor — but at home he was my husband. Apparently I was under the misguided impression that in a marriage both partners were equal. But Paul never treated me like I was his equal. Paul was twelve years older than me. Our marriage ended up being like a father-daughter relationship where Paul was the wise and all knowing father — and I was his scatterbrained daughter.

Poor Paul. To be harnessed to this scatterbrained daughter. So what is a doctor to do when he has a rebelling wife? Why go out and cheat on her of course.

Looking back now, I realize how frustrating it must have been for Paul to believe that he was the master in our marriage and then to find out that he had no control over his subject. As years passed and the marriage progressed I did come to disrespect Paul. To treat him with contempt. And to disobey his wishes. The rage inside of me built to a crescendo. I was constantly raiding the refrigerator — eating anything to numb the anger I was feeling inside.

My imaginary conversation with Paul continues. These imaginary conversations that I have with Paul are so real to me that I can actually feel and see his physical presence in the room. Paul looks over at me typing at the computer. “What are you typing?” he asks.

“A post for my blog.”

“Personally I think you’re wasting your time with this blog. I think it’s just going to end up being another dead end pursuit of your writing.”

“This might surprise you, Paul — but I’m beginning to build up a readership.”

“You are? Well, I know my attorney is reading you — but that’s only because I’m paying him to read you.”

“Has he found anything to sue me for?”

“Not yet, but I’m sure in time you’ll trip up and there will be something we can nail you on.”

“Has your attorney said anything about my blog?”

“Actually, he thinks it’s pretty funny.”

“Really, Paul — if your attorney thinks it’s funny I suggest you find another attorney.”

“Well, I haven’t read it, but I told him that you were definitely not funny. I was married to you and believe me you were not a barrel of laughs.”

“You’re so right. Ours was not a marriage where either one of us laughed.”

“So what are you writing about today — not that I’m going to read it.”

“I know, Paul. We were married for twenty years and you never read anything I wrote. Why was that?”

“Well, I never considered you to be a real writer.”

“No?”

“To me a real writer is someone who gets paid for what they write. Would I be a doctor if no one paid me for my services?”

“So I guess you won’t be interested in reading about my mad, passionate, wildly sex-crazed nights with my refrigerator?”

Paul scratches his head and gives me a critical look. “No wonder no one pays you for what you write. The things you dream up, Joanie — they’re bizarre.”

“Lots of women turn to their refrigerator for love.”

Whenever I tried to explain to Paul why I was so unhappy in our marriage, he would start to play an imaginary violin and sing loudly to drown out my voice.

“Paul. . .”

“What?”

“Play it again.”

“Play what again?”

“You know. Play it again for old time’s sake.”

Paul smiles a sweet disarming smile. It is the same smile Paul used to smile when we first started dating. It used to melt my heart. Dear reader, did I ever tell you that Paul could be so charming when he wanted to be? So very charming. No, I never told you that. I guess there is a lot of things I never told you about Paul.

“Madam’s wish is my command,” Paul says bowing down to me ever so gallantly. He starts playing his imaginary violin and singing.

“Heart and soul, I fell in love with you
Heart and soul, the way a fool would do. . .”

My mind travels back in time to when I first fell in love with Paul. I smile inwardly remembering it all so well. The dreams. The plans. The happy life Paul and I were supposed to share together. We were suppose to grow old together. It was not suppose to end with us divorced. Now another woman shares with Paul the dreams that I once had for us.

10 WAYS HOW NOT TO GET FAT IN A MARRIAGE (OR RELATIONSHIP)

Okay, today is Day 2 of ProBlogger’s 31 Days to Build a Better Blog with the SITS Girls Challenge. You’re going to love my post today. I’m going to give you a list of 10 Ways How Not to Get Fat in a Marriage (or Relationship). So take this seriously, because although it may appear to be lighthearted and funny – I’m serious. Extremely serious.

Today’s challenge is to write a list post (a post with some kind of list in it). This is what it has to say about lists: “Using lists has always been a popular and effective technique among bloggers wanting to write content that spreads from one person to the next.”

Now the one thing I want more than anything is to have my blog spread from one person to the next, like Ree Drummond’s blog The Pioneer Woman.

She’s so big that I’m going to devote an entire paragraph just to her. I heard on The View, at least I believe it was The View, when Ree Drummond appeared on it, that twenty million readers a month read her blog. Yes, you heard me correctly. Twenty million readers! I don’t even know how many zeros are in twenty million that’s why I’m spelling it out! Was I jealous? I was foaming at the mouth. What I would give to have twenty million readers reading my blog!

And then my big dream would be to appear on The View and have Barbara Walters, Whoopi Goldberg, Joy Behar, Elisabeth Hasselbeck and Sherri Shepherd all wanting to gab with me. The highlight would come when Whoopi would say to me, “I understand that you have a Master of Fine Arts Degree in Screenwriting from UCLA.”

I would demurely nod my head and Whoopi would say, “You’re a very talented writer. Why don’t you write a screenplay for me?”

I would smile sweetly and say, “Well, actually, Whoopi, I did write a screenplay for you. I sent a letter to your office asking you if you would have your agent read it, but you ignored my letter.”

A puzzled look would come over Whoopi’s face. “You did?”

“Yes, but I didn’t have a literary agent representing me, so you probably thought to yourself, ‘Well, how good can the screenplay be if the girl can’t even get an agent to represent her.’ You know, Whoopi, Gena Rowlands personally read the screenplay and wanted to star in it so how bad could it be?”

“Gena Rowlands wanted to star in your screenplay? She’s a wonderful actress,” Whoopi would say.

“Yes, she is,” I would agree.

Well, as my dearly departed mother used to say, “It’s not worth thinking about anymore. It’s water under the bridge. Remember a rolling stone gathers no moss. Move forward with your life, Joanie, and stop looking backwards or you might get run over by an elephant.”

“An elephant? Mother what are you talking about?”

“Elephant? Did I say elephant?” Mother would say laughing, “I meant to say – oh, you know what I meant to say!”

No, I didn’t always know what Mother meant to say, but she was always a barrel of laughs. Come to think of it, I would gladly give up having twenty million readers reading my blog if I could have my mother back again for just one day. I would treasure that day forever.

Dear reader, I have to apologize. I know I promised to write a list about 10 Ways How Not to Get Fat in a Marriage (or Relationship), but I wasn’t planning to go off on a tangent. So I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to shorten my list from 10 Ways How Not to Get Fat in a Marriage (or Relationship) to One Way How Not to Get Fat in a Marriage (or Relationship) – but not to worry, the other 9 ways weren’t that important anyhow. Believe me this is the most important lesson that a woman has to learn.

Okay, here it is: One Way How Not To Get Fat In A Marriage (or Relationship).

1. Marry a man who loves you.

That’s the secret. It’s as simple as that. If you have to talk the man into marrying you, or if he’s unsure about how he really feels about you, then you need to walk away and find a man who really cherishes and loves you, because if you don’t I can promise you that you will live to regret it and you will end up eating your heart out and getting fat.

I know this sounds like a no brainer to marry a man who loves you, but it’s not as simple as it may seem. You see, we women can be very determined when we fall in love with a man and know he’s the one we want to marry. We’re willing to hang in there for as long as it takes to break down his resistance until he finally gives in and marries us. But I’m warning you: DON’T DO IT! Run, run, run in the opposite direction.

If you want to learn more, read my two blogs titled, “Were There Red Flags?” and “Lost In My Fantasy.”

Wonderful! This completes Day 2’s challenge.

Looking forward to tomorrow’s challenge. And have I told you how happy I am to be back blogging.