Three's Too Much Company

Nurse: Are you single or married?



Spunky: Married.





Nurse: Are you monogamous?





Spunky: Like I said, married.



Nurse: That's not responsive to my question.






Oh. Fair enough. A lawyer by trade, I really should have been more precise in my answer. I quickly wondered has anyone ever confessed to an extramarital affair through a routine health exam? Do nurses get bombarded by sobbing women desperately explaining, "it only happened one time"? As the nurse stared at me, obviously reserving judgment until I provided my more accurate response, it occurred to me the medical profession does not consider marriage a proxy for monogamy. Interesting.



Spunky: Yes, monogamous.





Nurse: Is your partner?



Spunky: Well, I certainly hope so - but I suppose you'd have to ask him!




I consider myself to be about one runway to the left of open-minded. When it comes to alternative lifestyles, I am really not bothered by the less than traditional. Inter-racial, inter-faith, homosexual, bisexual, atheist, agnostic, Libertarian - whatever, I really don't care. Well, that's not entirely true. Hoarders really freak me out. All that stuff piling up inexplicably taking over every inch of your space for no good reason, without any order, system or organization. I'm starting to itch. But that's neither here nor there. Hoarders aside, I say who cares? However, there is something about the notion of a non-monogamous, or open marriage, that I find hard to wrap my head around. Married with multiple partners?! It's not just an HBO series folks, this is a real thing. Really, I looked it up and Wikipedia says it's real, so obviously it must be.

According to my trusted source, an open marriage is typically defined as a marriage in which the partners agree that each spouse may engage in extramarital relationships without it being considered infidelity. Hmm ... sounds familiar, like, well, dating. I've done this before, you're dating your Brandon Walsh and all is perfectly uninteresting and then your Dylan comes along. You conveniently remind yourself that you and Brandon were never really exclusive, so why not? It's not cheating if you were never exclusive. Open marriage works the same way. Can you ever cheat in an open marriage? Which husband controls the remote? Which wife controls everything else? I'm trying to understand here, but I really can't make it make sense.

I am admittedly new to this whole marriage thing, but when the going has gotten tough so far my first thought was to have less husbands, not more! Husbands create messes. Wet towels on the floor, cereal bowls on every surface, wine glasses stained red, gym bags on the kitchen table. They leave the lights on and turn the thermostat down. They stay up late, wake up late and are generally running late. Sure, they take out the garbage and kill bugs - but truly, only one pair of hands is needed for that! So I am thinking, one husband is plenty. In my house, three's too much company. It might start to feel cramped, crowded ... like I was hoarding.

The Last Breakup

I have a theory that right before you meet "The One" you must endure a painful, awful, soul-scarring breakup. The kind of breakup that makes Ben and Jerry the only friends you can stand to be around. The kind of breakup that erases three and half years of being a non-smoker. The kind of breakup that makes you wonder who is the idiot that made wine bottles so small? And sold sans straws?!

It's that time you find yourself in tears in the grocery store - not because you are thinking of him, but because the bagger asked if you wanted single or double bags and all of sudden you realize everything about your life is single. Single-file lines, single-dollar bills, single payer health care, All the Single Ladies. You find yourself tortured over who you will spend Columbus Day with this year? Knowing full well that pre-breakup you couldn't even have identified when Columbus Day is. You question whether all that time studying would have been better spent learning how to apply make up - where is this high-powered career getting you anyway? Stalking doesn't sound like a crime anymore, but more like a hobby. Flannel becomes a staple in your wardrobe. Ah yes, you are squarely in the Last Breakup.

The Last Breakup must be high drama to qualify. Picture Carrie smashing her wedding bouquet over Big's head driving the wrong way down a one-way street in Manhattan. A public embarrassment almost always makes the cut. Cheating is a particularly easy way to fit into this category. If you happen to walk in on it, you are in the express line of the Last Breakup. If he was an addict or an artist you'll likely slide right in too.

The Last Breakup is no picnic, but you certainly can have some fun with it. I know one woman who asked a pregnant friend to take a pregnancy test and then she mailed the positive test to her ex with a note that said "you should probably call me." That's just funny. I know a brilliant woman who is an IT expert with all her ex's passwords. She would choose totally random times, log into her ex's computer and just shut it down. Hell hath no fury like that of an overly-educated woman's scorn. I am not endorsing torturing your ex, but I am all for enjoying this one last heart-wrenching breakup. Go nuts. Because once this passes, and this too shall pass, you'll never have another breakup. Nope, you'll have no excuse to indulge in a hot Krispy Kreme, no rationale for smoking cigarettes, no drinking directly from the wine bottle (or wine box as the case may be) or wearing pajamas during the day. It's not to say you won't do these things, it's just that when you do, your perfectly wonderful husband will look at you say "Honey, that's gross!"

The One Who Got Away

The "one who got away" phenomenon is one I have a hard time with. Truth be told, I can't relate. I don't have a one who got away. My boyfriends before my husband were, respectively, a drunk, a homosexual, and most incompatible of all -- a Republican. So, my exes didn't so much "get away" they were thrown away, pushed away or in one case restraining ordered away. Admittedly, I am no expert on the "one who got away" phenomenon.

But, that of course does not preclude me from having a strong opinion on the matter. Typically, the one who got away conversation begins when one of my girlfriends discovers that her useless, unemployed, philandering ex just took his hair-brained idea for a company public, is married to a perfectly-kept woman who has not worked a day in her life and is raising two blond children who wear matching denim jackets for the family photo op. "That could've been me driving the kids to soccer practice in my new Lexus SUV, donning Chanel sunglasses to block the glare from my four-carat ring." Of course it could have, but he "got away."

You see when he was with my friend, he was unshaven, unmotivated and truth be told, unattractive. Once she, albeit painstakingly, kicked him to the curb - he seemed to get it. He would never be with a woman as fabulous, successful and beautiful as my friend unless he changed his ways. So he shaved, got an MBA, befriended the dorky kid who desperately wanted an invite to the VIP parties, and voila - five years later he launched his first major entrepreneurial venture, met a beautiful woman who couldn't imagine him in anything but his Zegna suit and handmade Italian shoes, realizing how unlikely he is to hold on to this woman without a legal obligation on her part he proposed.

So, when my friend spots his picture under the article entitled "Top 40 Under 40 Entrepreneurs" she sighs as if she let this man slide through her fingers. Let me clear up the delusion. She never dated that man. She knows him about as well as she does Matt Damon. She probably contributed in some part to him becoming that man, but she never dated him. She certainly never let him "get away." She never knew that self-sufficient, well-groomed, Ivy-educated grown up. She dated a co-dependent, Abercrombie-clad, pot-smoking kid trying to find himself. So, he didn't "get away," he grew up. And, you just happened to date the pre, not post, version.

So, he "got away." What is he, James frickin' Bond? There you were, sipping bloody mary's one Sunday morning for brunch and as you turned to ask the waitress for more pepper, all of a sudden he "got away"?! You were strolling in the park, both of your dogs chasing after perfectly-tossed Frisbees and as they trot back, Frisbees clenched between their teeth - poof! He "got away"?! Ladies, you don't really believe this story you are telling, do you? Re-writing history is about as useless as regretting it.

You wanted a ring, he wanted more time. You wanted to travel with a backpack, he wanted to settle into a house. You wanted to be exclusive, he wanted to see what else was out there. You wanted something more, he was giving all he had. So, it didn't quite work out. And, that's all. Don't torture yourself with the "what could have beens." Let's be honest with ourselves, he didn't "get away," he walked, skipped or maybe even was court ordered away.

Hyphen Hate

Recently, a girlfriend asked me what would happen if she married a man she is dating who has a hyphenated last name? Would she double hyphenate? You mean like Carrie Bradshaw-Big-Preston? Kelly Taylor-Walsh-McKay? That's not seriously an option, is it? Ladies, we've gone a little hyphen happy and we need to reign in the punctuation here.



It's time for a Hyphen Summit. For more than a decade now, we have unnecessarily elongated our names, painstakingly crammed all those characters on an electronic form, and feverishly lost our breath as we introduce ourselves as "Sally Robinson-McDonald" or "Allison Smith-Goldberg." Ladies, put down the hyphen. It is tired, overused, and quite frankly, very 1994. I know what you're thinking: it works for Olivia Newton-John. Black leather stirrup pants and a perm also worked for Olivia Newton-John, are you sporting either of those?



The hyphen is indecisive and insecure. It belongs to a generation that was simultaneously worried women's lib would send them a fine if they dropped their last name and that their new husband would send them packing if they did not take his. The hyphen is embraced by women who believe a skirt is not work appropriate if your knees are showing and that it's totally work appropriate if you only shave below said knees. They wear running shoes to work and slip on their heels under their desks. They decline to even peruse the dessert menu at a business lunch.

We are different. We roll our eyes at hyphenated last names. We have no fear whatsoever that a name change implies anything more than an easier envelope to pen when we are invited to a wedding, a more simple transaction when he goes to pay a bill in my name, fewer questions when we check into a hotel and enough boxes on government-issued forms to fit our entire name. We consider it a convenience not a concession. We're the generation of ADD and aderoll, text messaging and instant messaging, twitter and skype - we are quick and concise. Truth be told, if you can't tell me how you are, where you are and what you are doing in 140 characters or less, you've probably lost my attention. So, it's no surprise we despise superfluous punctuation and elongated naming conventions. Not our style.



It's not that we don't appreciate what women's lib did for us, it's that we don't fear them or our husbands. We wear skirts as short as they look good. We shave all of our legs because as expensive as our shoes are, those gams better be rocking too. We wear our Manolos to work, at work and to cocktails after work. We order dessert and oftentimes don't offer to share. Now, that's liberating!

We have no problem taking his name, or keeping our own. Whichever is fine. In our post-feminist reality, it's not which choice you make that matters - it's how definitively you make that choice. There is no room for wishy washy wavering over what you are going to be called on a name plate. We are too busy and too important to worry about what you call us - just call us, make an appointment and let's close that deal. We can punctuate later.

Knights in Suburbia

Generally, the suburbs make me itch. Chain restaurants. Biggie meals. Sprawling lawns. Bumper stickers extolling every articulable achievement. It's a place where "mass transit" means a Tahoe. It's a universe where when someone refers to the "club" they mean golf and tennis, not grey goose and tonic. Controversies on the "Board" means the school board, not the latest scandal between the CEO and CFO.

It's not the kind of place you expect six yuppy professionals to spend a Friday night, but we had a very specific purpose. I stuffed my Tori Burch tote with my passport (we cross over a border, right?) and extra birth control (there might be something in the water out there) and prepared myself for my suburban outing.

We hired a car service for our suburban adventure because the cars we drive are entirely too small and/or fuel efficient to fit in in the 'burbs. They'd be able to spot as outsiders a mile away. Most of us grew up in some suburb somewhere and yet we all decided that 800 square feet of converted warehouse space was somehow far superior to 3,000 square feet of a craftsman-style two-story single family home. We turned in our gated communities for concierge service. Neighbors with casseroles for questionable characters on the street corner. We convinced ourselves that a bigger mortgage is worth a smaller utility bill. Obviously. Two covered parking spots is a luxury we dream of. Storage space, who needs it? We turned down the sounds of pick-up football games for the sounds of police car chases.

But for this one night, we returned the 'burbs.

Our towncar rolled up to the mecca of the suburbs: the mall. You would think they were having a sample sale the way the parking lot was filled and chaotic. Teenagers crowding the entrance way, looking over their shoulders half a dozen times before they nervously light a cigarette. The men all seemed to have received the same memo that mandatory attire includes jeans that are at least three sizes too large and t-shirts that have clever remarks like "#1 Dad," "My Drinking Team Has a Tennis Problem," "Baby Daddy" and "Got Par?" The women weren't much better off. I finally understood the full meaning of "Mom Jeans." They clench tightly around the ankle, spread generously through the hips and then cinch the waist to create what can only be described as a muffin top. Yikes.

We stepped out of our towncar one by one. Skinny jeans and knee-high boots, leggings and Louboutins, a fedora hat and skinny ties. Six blackberries going off in perfect harmony. The spritz of Chanel No. 5 on each wrist is quickly overpowered by the smell of potato skins and mozzarella sticks. I can hear Marisa Tomei's assessment of our situation: "Oh yeah, you blend!"

A mom with a stroller rolls by with a child of about, oh, two, two and half feet, and I genuinely notice, "wow, she's cute!" Without skipping a beat, the mom looks at me and says "You want her?" I shudder - do they make you take a kid back with you when you visit the 'burbs?!?!

Finally, our long-anticipated evening activity begins: Medieval Times. If you're unfamiliar with this dinner theatre experience, I highly recommend it. There are paper crowns, mandatory photos and goblets of beer involved. As our dinner experience bagan I asked to please see the wine list. I read my options "(1) House Red. (2) House White." I thought long and hard, "I'll have the Red, thank you." We were served enormous portions of mass-prepared food, sans utensils. Very authentic. We enjoyed the dramatic stylings of teenagers who aspired to make it in the high school play this year. They jousted and feigned painful death scenes. It wasn't quite a night at the Fox theatre, but no one calls you "M'lord" at the Fox.

Life is all about trade offs.

Better Never Than Late

There are few things I dislike more than tardiness. I detest lateness the way Sarah Palin hates a bill from Neiman Marcus. The way Jon hates Kate (plus or minus the eight). The way an anorexic hates an all-you-can eat buffet. You get the point.

Truly, if I could have my own tardy bell I would. I'd ring that bell every time someone said "be down in five minutes" and arrived ten minutes later. Are you truly incapable of estimating time? If so, they have recently invented this super cool high tech device to assist you - it's called a watch, invest in one. You would hear my bell when my 8:00 p.m. dinner date arrived at 8:12 p.m. because "traffic was so bad." Is this the first time you have ever ventured out of your house to meet someone for dinner on a Friday night? Is it actually surprising to you that other people in this city might also be meeting someone for dinner? I'd ring the heck out of that bell as I sat in the waiting room and watched my appointment time come and go. Why bother making an appointment if you are just going to let my reserved time slot come and go without any acknowledgement whatsoever that I have crafted my entire morning around this annual exam?! Why not take the Comcast route and assign me a 6-hour window and tell me to just drop on by and you'll get to me when you get to me? And oh how I would flail my tardy bell when you arrive fifteen minutes late every single morning to work. I am no mathematician, but if you left your house fifteen minutes earlier, you realize you'd be on time, right?

Beyond the very obvious that being late is rude, I think it also is a sign of weakness. You couldn't get where you needed to be when you needed to be there. You were unable to pull it together. Sloppy. Disorganized. Late. My distaste for tardiness translates into an obsessive-compulsive need to not only be on time, but to be unimaginably early. Always. If I arrive somewhere at what a normal person would call "on time," i.e., the time previously agreed-upon for meeting, I feel panicked, anxious and lightheaded. I can bite off ten perfectly manicured nails waiting for a red light to turn green when I am right on schedule. It's a sickness.

My anal-retentive punctuality has reached a breaking point. It's time to confess: As a general rule, I arrive at the airport at least two hours before a domestic flight. No, I have never heard of a flight taking off early, but I have also never heard of someone who was two hours early missing their flight. Typically, I show up at my doctor's office twenty minutes before my appointment time. Maybe he can take me early and I can squeeze in an extra fifteen minutes at the gym afterwards? I always dial into a conference call five minutes before the start time. I'd hate to be the last one on the line. I leave my house thirty minutes before a dinner reservation at a restaurant that is eight minutes away. Look, what if I have to parallel park? I routinely wait in my car for ten minutes when I get to my spin class, because it's embarrassing to be early to a 6:00 a.m. class. There is no explanation for that one. None whatsoever.

This has to stop. I am driving myself, not to mention my husband, completely crazy. There must be a punctual medium between breathlessly late and anxiously early. I can't go through life rushing to wait.

I've given much thought to how I can train myself to slow down. It finally dawned on me and the answer is so simple, so clear I can't believe it took me this long to discover the antidote to my obsessive-compulsive, anal-retentive, beyond annoying need to be early: more Manolos! There is no way I could hurriedly trot through the security line at the airport in four-inch heels. Nope, in my Manolos I will be forced to swagger through the airport and reach my gate an appropriate thirty minutes before take off. Likewise, I am certainly not willing to sacrifice that perfectly-engineered heel to make it to Dr. Stirrups' office on time. No, there will be no rushing through the parking lot, unnecessarily exerting upon the accelerator, scuffing my soles - no, I'll take it slow for Manolo. I may try to leave my house early for that dinner reservation, but alas, those beautiful pieces of artwork adorning my ankles will delicately hold me back as I exercise restraint and take it one stair at a time. They are more than just a sound investment, they are therapeutic!

And, perhaps, over time I might even loosen my grip on that tardy bell. Maybe. It could happen. Ok, highly unlikely.

I'll Have The Lobster, Please

The only person I have ever found to be both endearing and cheap is George Banks. When he insists on the "chipper chicken" or tears open the bag of hot dog buns because he only needs eight and refuses to pay for the dozen - I felt for the guy. George Banks, of course, is a fictional character and so I can only chalk up my tolerance of him to the fact that he does not actually exist. And ultimately, George Banks ended up where every person guilty of being cheap should: jail.

You know who I am referring to. It's the friend who can't split a bill evenly because she didn't drink and everyone else had a margarita. The colleague who never remembers his wallet when you two run out for a coffee break. The relative who signs his name to the card for the beautiful gift you bought swearing he'll get next year's gift. The one who will go to two grocery stores because there is a better deal on chicken breasts at the second store. It's the friend who crashes in your hotel room, snacks on your mini bar, and jumps in your rental car without ever pausing to ask if she can contribute. The guy who breaks out a coupon on a date. The friend who will drive halfway across town, through bumper to bumper traffic, to drop off her dry cleaning on 10% Off Tuesdays. She's the one who hosted a party and then asked everyone to chip in to cover the cost. It's that person that spends twelve hours scouring the internet for the best ticket fares for a Thanksgiving flight - isn't your time worth more to you than that?!?!

You call yourself "frugal," "thrifty," "good with money." I have some other names for it. You criticize me for the Venti Americano I buy every morning - if I saved all that coffee money I'd be $2000 richer at the end of the year! Sure, but I'd also have slept through half my conference calls and court dates. It would have cost me a hell of a lot more than $2000 if I gave up my coffee habit. Trust me. You look down on me for spending hundreds of dollars on a single pair of shoes - don't I know they can be bought for $89.99?! I am aware that they allegedly do make shoes that cost under $100. I think I've seen some of the nurses at the hospital next door wearing them. They have orthopedic soles and are covered in an unidentifiable white fabric. Lovely. You turn your nose up at the fact that we eat out virtually every meal. Yes, I have heard that buying groceries and cooking meals will save me hundreds of dollars a month. Well, we could also save money by sitting on the couch every night, drinking tap water and slurping Ramen Noodles in the dark doing crossword puzzles. I'm not trying to just make it to the finish line of life, I'm in it to live it. So, I'll pass on hours spent chopping onions and throw one back while the Hibachi chef makes the onion volcano explode. That never gets old, does it?

Being cheap has no relationship whatsoever to income level. I am blessed to know a very "frugal" friend who rakes in $22,000 a year and a "thrifty" couple that has a combined income of $400,000 a year. So, this is not about having money at all. It is about an attitude toward money. A friend recently explained it best to me when she said, "sure, you can have a tight grip around all your money and squeeze it so tight none of it ever goes out. But if you're gripping it so tightly, there is no room for any to go in either."

So, Frugalites some tips for getting along with the rest of us: if you are unwilling or unable to split a dinner check that is not perfectly equal, stay home. Likewise, if you throw out a coupon at the end of the meal and declare that as part of your contribution to the check, don't act surprised if I never dine at another restaurant with you. Ever. If you are going to crash on my hotel couch or squeeze into my cab - offer to split the cost. Pick up the tab every now and then. It's good karma. Pay too much for an item of clothing - it's ok for someone else to make a living. It's really how this whole idea of capitalism works. Dare to book a flight, hotel room, or rental car without creating an excel spreadsheet of all the permutations of total cost. It's very liberating to travel during peak hours. Buy a car without walking out of the dealership exclaiming "I'm never coming back!" at least twice. Your salesperson might make their quota because of you, get a raise, be able to take their spouse out to a coupon-free meal.

At the end of "Father of the Bride" George Banks realizes it was all worth it - the swans, the ice sculpture, the faux Armani tuxedo. It was all worth it, not because he got the best deal on flowers or favors, but because he made his little girl's dreams come true. So maybe it's worth it to skip the "chipper chicken" and splurge for the lobster. Or the steak. Or, what the heck, the surf 'n turf. Life is simply too short to cut coupons and count pennies. As my father says, you can't take it with you.