Married? Yes. Dead? No.

You can call me many things. Organized. A bargain huntress. A purveyor of fine coffee. But a smug married, a la Bridget Jones's Diary? 

Never.

Indeed, I am lucky to be partnered up with an outstanding husband. The type of guy I think everyone should hold out for. He's supportive. A wonderful communicator. He challenges me to dream big and be a better person. And, did I mention he cooks?!

Sure, Andre's a great catch. But I'm not waving him over my head like some sort of trophy only awarded to those who get to Love. You know, that exclusive place where the sun always shines, the birds are always singing and all you need is each other. 

Apparently, I missed the memo that being a wife means I give up all life outside of the homestead. My college roommate's ex-boyfriend (who famously made my freshman dorm room a quadruple) remarked, after spying my husband and I at a nightclub, "What are you doing here? You're married."

Married? Yes. Dead? No.

And then there's you, the so called Sex and the City inspired Meetup group, who, as far as I can guess, used my wedded status to deny me admission. Pl-ease. You're not the first, and probably not the last, who pathetically thought I couldn't relate to the single girl perspective, because I'm not one myself. 

(And by the way, cocktails and fashion are far from the only things needed to recreate  any Sex and the City vibe. That sisterhood, unlike yours, was carpeted in compassion. No one booted Carrie because she was exclusive with Aidan. Or married to Mr. Big.)

Can't we just say enough to domestication discrimination?

Just because I'm not actively dating, does not mean I can't relate to the trials that come along with it. Phew. All my experiences, still a bit too close. The dude with the foot fetish. The one who stood me up. The one that HAD a girlfriend. Really, I haven't traveled that far from my seat in the 'therapy chairs', two odd Native American inspired seats, at a URI beach rental, where my cousin and I analyzed it all. 

And even though I'm married, I'm still looking out.

I know that BJ's Wholesale Club on a Sunday morn is prime 'stalking' ground for single men on the prowl. (I'm still pondering the why.) I also know that an intro salsa class is not only an outstanding place for men to meet women, but one of the best I've seen to be statistically outnumbered by them. You're welcome.

The funny thing about dating is that it's probably the most popular activity, that no one wants to do. I also know that being married, or at least being exclusive, is pretty much the goal everyone's working towards. So instead of writing me off, maybe you should hit me up for some tips. (Obsessively driving past his house won't make that cut.) 

I may be married, but I haven't forgotten where I came from. 

Believe me. I've tried.

Don't Drink The Water

In the midst of the cold and flu season, it's always helpful to review tips for maintaining good health. Wash your hands. Cover your mouth. And last, but not least, don't drink the water.

Especially if you have reusable containers in your fridge.

Especially if someone has been sick in your house. Especially if said ill person was spotted, during the height of the ordeal, surrounded by half empty bottles of H2O in the living room.

Granted, if you live in a child free environment, you'd probably just assume the fridge would be safe from common hazards, like say, a stainless steel bottle of infected ice water, sipped from, then returned to the fridge sometime during the course of a two-day period that a normally logical person had clearly LOST THEIR MIND.

But there's no way to be sure.

In fact, you'd be better to assume the germs inside said bottle were actually being preserved, sort of like what happens in the great labs of the world, dedicated to studying the DNA of viruses. The only problem was, last time I checked, no one here was interested in learning about the rapid reproduction of cells or being part of a control group, to test the strength of the virus after two weeks of refrigeration.  

Don't drink the water.

The first sign of trouble was the arrival of Moaning André in the middle of the night. The illness came on so quickly, I knew it was something he ingested.

"Thirsty. I'm so thirsty," André croaked.

"What did you eat?" I asked.

"Nothing," muttered André clutching his stomach. "Thirsty."

"You must have eaten something," I said. I'd survived enough food poisoning incidents in my day--hello tainted deli meat--to know the signs. "At work? Think."

André rolled his head back and forth on the sofa, "No."

"Nothing?"

"Thirsty. Oh. No. Maybe. Some pineapple."

"Some pineapple? Huh. Fresh pineapple? From someone at work? Had anyone been out sick?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Oh. Yeah. Her and---her daughter. So thirsty. Oh, this water tastes so good."

With the rapid onset of delirium and digestive distress, I theorized André's co-worker had been kind enough to share the uber-contagious Norovirus, you know, the same grossness that closes down schools and docks cruise ships.

So, to prevent my own demise, I went into super sanitation mode, disinfecting every surface in sight. I used gloves. I was hyper vigilant about washing my hands. I avoided touching my eyes, nose or mouth.  And amazingly enough, my health remained intact.

Which was a good thing because we were closing on our house.

And there was a bit of packing to do. As well as physical moving. And heavy lifting.

As you can imagine, this active labor can dehydrate a person. So two weeks after André had cleared the bug from his system, I quenched my thirst with some cold water from, you guessed it, one stainless steel bottle in our fridge.

The rest? Well, you know how that went.

Never ever EVER drink the water.

The Evolution of a Turkey Chef

Numero uno was Cubano style.

Really, I mean, is there any other way to prepare your first turkey? Especially when no one in the house is Latin. Luckily we were months away from any major holiday. Just two losers, a free turkey, a gas stove and a lazy Sunday afternoon.

Oh, we had a recipe too.

Only the bird in our freezer was much smaller than it required. By at least a quarter.

I might not be a great cook. But I do understand equations.

"Um, don't you think that you should cut the garlic, because of the size of the bird?"

"Oh, yes, dear, you are absolutely right. Thanks for reminding me. If I inserted ALL of the garlic cloves underneath the skin, we would certainly have a turkey on our hands with a disgustingly strong garlic flavor that we probably wouldn't be able to eat," said Andre. "Although I do believe that we would be safe from any vampire attacks."

"And, my darling, I also think it might be best for your gag reflex and mine, if I abandon my ambitious plan to boil the bones for soup," continued Andre. "The smell of death, permeating our small apartment and entire being for weeks, isn't nearly worth the trade-off for that cup of broth."

Needless to say, we were cured from making turkey for a long time. Until last year, when we hosted Thanksgiving at our crib. You can't quite pass that task off.

Round two: another recipe. This one for high heat over a really short period of time.

"Um, don't you think that you should ask me how to set the oven? You've really never used it."

"Oh, yes, dear, you are absolutely right. Thanks for reminding me. If I just push some buttons and try to set it myself, I may actually program the timer to go on and off and on and off and on and off and on and off, over the period of two hours that we're supposed to be cooking the bird on high heat," said Andre.

"And then, my sweetness, when your father tries to cut into the bird, he will be moderately appalled, because three cuts will reveal the pinkest bird that he's ever seen, thanks to the pulsating heating method I've just created," said Andre.  "But truly, that won't even be the most horrible part, because while I've told the story about fifteen times about my co-worker and how they cooked the plastic bags inside the turkey, I'll somehow manage to do the same."

Round three is on Thursday. What'll it be? Third times a charm? Three strikes and you're out?

You've still got time to cancel.

Dear Kim Humphries, ah, Kardashian

Dear Kim Humphries, ah, Kardashian,

Bit of a rough week, heh?

Seventy-two days of marriage. And then bam! It's over before it began.

Ouch. That's got to hurt, especially since your sister Khloe's got two years of marriage under her belt, after a shorter courtship than yours. Full disclosure, here in little Rhody, we think Lam Lam's a-ok, even though he did bail on our beloved URI for the NBA, without sticking around for a degree. Really man. No degree? But I digress.

Know what, Kim? I give you props for getting out quick. Life's too short, right? And so many couples stay together, completely miserable, for way too long. So bravo for your decisiveness.

Granted, I don't know you, well, at all. But you do appear in my living room on the regular, so I can't just sit by and say nothing. Especially when you seem like you could use some advice.

See, the truth is, I really don't claim to be a relationship expert. But I've been with my husband for nineteen years, and married for nearly thirteen. And that's gotta to be worth something. Especially since we still really do enjoy each other's company. A lot.

I met Andre when I was twenty-one. And trust me, the prince charming of my checklist, didn't quite match up with the one I fell for: an unemployment collecting, part-time cinema working, Chevy Sprint driving, outside of my race dude. But what a match we are. I am grateful every day that I have this kind of love in my life. And my man, are you listening Mr. Odom, has earned, not one, but two degrees in our time together.

Dear Kim, I want the same for you. The man, that is, not the diplomas.

Sigh, I watched your four hour wedding extravaganza, all right; it distracts me when I'm working out. And the truth is, I knew that you and the mister weren't going to make the long haul, even with your over-the-top diamond headdress and flawless make-up.  

Life's hard, doll. And if you don't want to sit together during your rehearsal dinner, or can't find room for your honey in your perfect white (decor, not race) world, there's gonna be issues. Couldn't you feel that underlying tension between you? Not love, no matter how much you loved that ring. Or that dress. Or the second one. Or the third.

Damn girl, didn't you get tired of changing?

Truthfully, it's that image you've been cultivating that's the real problem. The same one that's brought you riches and fame. A beautiful, dark-haired, big-eyed princess with a killer body, that every girl wants to be, and every boy wants to be with. Only problem is, you can't come up with that happy ending, no matter how hard you've tried to stage it for the cameras.

So, here's my radical proposition for you: Give up the hunt.

Yup, that's right. No more boys, until you're okay with being you. No, I mean really okay being you. You've got to change your motivations. Go to the party for the party, not because you think that maybe, just maybe, you'll meet your match. Experience life. Meet people. Wear pretty outfits. But whatever you do, don't try to fall in love.

In fact, don't even think about falling in love. Don't long to fall in love. Don't be sad about not falling in love. Don't think about the bambinos that you're not having. Or the anniversaries you're not celebrating. Don't mourn for that secret couple world you think you're missing out on.

Just be. Got that?

Oh, and, there is something else you could do. Right now, you've got the attention of what seems to be the entire universe. So how 'bout you go ahead and use your platform and give the single ladies out there a shout out. Tell them that they're okay all by themselves. That no one, that's right, no one, needs a man to complete them.

Not even you.