Based on my clear lack of good blogging material, or to be more honest, the right outlook with which to write about anything at all, I’m yoinking one from the vaults to share with you. This was written about 2 months before I got married in 2005 and has been updated somewhat by moi. Because I’m good like that.
With my impending nuptials lurking stealthily right around the corner, I am consistently reminded of how over half of marriages these days end in divorce. According to the *ahem* interesting folks at livejournals Virgins Over 25 site, that number is markedly decreased for those involved in church. And the number is even less than that for people who raise their children in church.
What this means is that I’m totally fucked.
I don’t WANT to get divorced, too much nasty social stigma attached to that, plus, I’m too lazy to go to court over and over to divide up our animals and dishes, so I have carefully devised a plan to help me stay married. Because if anybody in the family requires the label ‘œTemperful’ it is I. (okay, so it’s not a word. Yet. But it should be)
Ergo, I alone am the danger for divorce.
As most old people will creepily point out to you, the sex and passion tends to die out after a number of years leaving in it’s place a bleak type of emptiness, fulfilled either by really dull pursuits like, ‘œstamp collecting’ and even worse, ‘œbird watching.’
Or an affair.
That’s right, folks, screw the birds and the stamps, the way that I am going to beat a divorce before marriage is through an illict affair, carefully mapped out over the next couple of years. I mean, why WAIT to scratch the itch? Nip it in the bud! That’s what I say.
So I am carefully screening, through an intensive application process (think the Meyers-Brigg crossed with Cosmo quiz) potential candidates for my pending affair and possible illegitimate love-child.
Some candidates in my pool:
Mick Jagger– he may be as old as Jesus, but the man can still MOVE. Plus, he’s got bank vaults full of money and is freakishly fertile, so the child support checks would pay for a big house for Dave and I to live in.
The Garbage Man– perhaps his fragrance is a little on the shitty side (get it?) but he’s got some sexy muscles, and I don’t exactly have a milk-man to fall back on. (Ed note: we have since moved, and I’m no longer inundated with smoldering hot garbage men. I can’t be sure I’ve ever even seen my new garbage men. Sadly)
Anthony Bourdain– While I don’t exactly envision steamy sex fantasies with the guy, I imagine we’d do a lot of drinking, smoking and making each other laugh. Any man who uses the phrase “pube in my drink” on television is a man I’d like to hump. Or at least hang out with.
Anna KorniwhatsherfacedatingEnriquewhatshisface– she’s super, super, super hot. I mean, smoldering hot. I totally want to make out with her, and I’m not remotely gay.
Okay, okay, okay. So I don’t have a crazy long list. Sue me. I mean, it’s not every day that you get to carefully choose AND screen a potential lover, right?
Oh like YOU’VE never thought of doing this! Haven’t you?