The Germ Test

Dear reader, I need your advice. Rightly or wrongly, there are always a series of tests to which I subject the men in my life. These tests are not premeditated or even always consciously adminstered; at some point something happens and my reaction to it is to create an “information gathering” opportunity which has a right course of action and a wrong one.  Recently there was an incident that caused me to wonder if I had gone too far. Am I the one who's failing?

I should preface this story by telling you that I am slightly germphobic. I generally make a concerted effort to appear like a normal person who isn’t overly fazed by germs, but sometimes and on certain issues I fail. For instance, I will not under any circumstances touch the door handle in a public restroom with my bare hands after I’ve washed them. I love a bathroom with a swinging door! If there are no paper towels, I will use toilet paper, or I will wait until someone else opens the door. Yes, I’ve stood there and waited.

So, Ricky knows this about me. My phobia has been well-documented throughout our relationship. The other night, I had showered and gotten in bed (I also have this thing about my bed being a clean place, but I think you’ve gotten the idea) and Ricky had washed his face and brushed his teeth and was about to get in bed (no shower, but I’ve come to accept this) but first he picks up his laptop, sees that the cord is tangled, and proceeds to use both hands to smooth out the entire length of the cord. The cord that rests on the floor, not only at home but in Starbucks and lord knows where else on a regular basis. After doing this, his hands might as well have been painted red in my germphobic mind. So I tell him (well, whine at him might be a more accurate description): “You’ve contaminated your hands with that cord. Now they’re all germy.” And he gives me one of his exasperated looks and tells me that there are germs everywhere. I ask him to wash his hands and he refuses. “OK, suit yourself. But do not touch me. I mean it.” And I did mean it. He rolls his eyes, gets in bed, sets his alarm and then reaches over to put his arm around me. I swat his arm away. He says “I thought you’d have forgotten.” “No.” I tell him. “I will never forget. Keep your germy hands on your side of the bed.”

Ricky sighs and turns out the light and tells me he’s not going to indulge my craziness. I respond: “Fine. You win. And by win, I mean you don't get to touch me.” I then scoot farther over to my side of the bed and turn my back to him. At this point, I realize that maybe I’ve gone too far. But I really, really, really don’t want his germy hands to touch me! I try telling myself that if I had been in the bathroom while he touched the cord I never would have known. I try to remind myself of all of the millions of germy things he’d touched before touching me that I will never ever know about. I will survive if he touches me, I will probably even enjoy it. Of course I know this. But it is all to no avail. I'm not trying to "win", but I am powerless to surrender. I decide to go to sleep without so much as a cuddle.

After a few minutes, I hear him get up and go into the bathroom. Sure enough, I hear the water running and a minute later he’s back in bed. I face him and ask if he washed his hands. “Maybe” he replies. I take one of his hands and sniff. It smells like soap, it’s still slightly damp, it’s glorious. “Thank you! Now you can touch me all you want.” I tell him and wrap my arms around him.

I know I should be happy, since he passed the test and I “won.” But the thought lingers… should I have just let it go? Did I go too far? What do you think?

Investment Property

I think most men can be put into one of two categories: prime real estate or fixer-upper. When I was younger, I was always going for the prime real estate. Sometimes we call it the “whole package” or “Mr. Right.” Perhaps the especially whimsical among us call him “Prince Charming.” There’s nothing wrong with prime real estate, if you can afford it, or if you get lucky enough to stumble into a sweet bargain for some previously undervalued property. By and large, however, prime real estate is either nearly impossible to find on the market (it gets snatched up pretty quickly – women are no dummies!) or there is such intense demand we often find ourselves outbid.

But the fixer-upper. There are many more fixer-uppers on the market. You have to be careful and discriminating, of course. You need a solid foundation with which to work. Does the roof need to be replaced? Will it cost a fortune to renovate? You have to make sure that you’re looking at something fixable, not a property that should be condemned. Rotting foundation, vermin infestations, squatters – you need to make sure the property is free from squatters, or at least that they can be easily displaced. Once you’ve determined you have a fixer-upper, you might just be in luck.

I went to school with a classic fixer-up. He and I had a brief dalliance, but mostly we were friends. Now this guy, we’ll him Victor – was (and is) great in many ways. Incredibly smart, funny, charming. And really good-looking. But while we were in school he went through this bohemian phase where he grew a straggly beard, wore the same clothes almost every day, and smoked so that he generally smelled of dirty hair and cigarettes. How unsexy can you get? He had been neglected and fallen into disrepair. So I took it upon myself to help Victor out. I wrote him a “memo” titled “10 Ways Victor Can Smell Better.”

The bullet points ranged from washing his hair every day to not smoking in his dorm room. I also gave him guidelines for how long he could wear certain items of clothing before washing them (underwear: once; jeans: thrice). While I don’t generally recommend such an aggressive approach to renovations, it totally worked with Victor. Not only did he heed my advice, he actually thanked me for changing his life. He used those words! If you were to see Victor today, all you would know is that he is prime real estate. Good looking, successful and off the market. Happily married with a new baby.

I identified Ricky as a fixer-upper early on. Smart, funny, basically good-hearted (no vermin infestation), but he was fearful of commitment and had some general boorish tendencies that needed to be corrected. Cosmetically, all was good. Well, mostly – I have started making him over a bit and there are certain clothes I’ve declared off-limits. I actually try to get him to eat more and work out less because he looks better naked than I do, but I digress. The main areas in need of fixing had to do with his conflict resolution skills (non-existent) to his general playboy ways. Shockingly, the playboy ways were the easiest to correct. All that was required was my taking a stand in my request for fidelity. But the communication is an ongoing battle. We have so many “men are from mars, women are from venus” moments that make me want to jump off a bridge. I know I wanted a fixer-upper, but the contractor lied about how much this was going to cost and how long it was going to take!

Last week Ricky and I were in co-habitating heaven. I was saying things to him like “isn’t living together the most fun thing ever?” and “how excited were you today to get home to see me?” But on Saturday there was an “incident” that could have been easily squashed with a sincere and prompt apology. But that was not to be. One long drawn out I'm sorry and two days later and we are still on the rocks. I don’t even know if we’re going to make it. I hope we do, but soon there could be two fixer-uppers back on the market- Ricky and me.

Police Brutality

Q: (I’m paraphrasing) There’s a woman, let’s call her Lynn. Lynn is over 40, single and a police officer (let’s call her Officer Lynn!) who desperately wants to be married. Officer Lynn is perplexed as to why she can’t find a husband, since she thinks she is funny, fly, etc. Those who know Officer Lynn think she is a huge pain in the ass. To wit: she is loud and obnoxious in social settings to an almost unbearable degree, and she is obsessed with men’s wives. For example, she constantly says things to men like “Where’s your wife?” “How’s your wife?” “Well, if you didn’t have a wife..” and so on. According to my sources, Officer Lynn can be so unbearable that people avoid being places where they know she will be. But Officer Lynn has a friend, we’ll call her Sharon. And while Sharon’s husband can’t stand Officer Lynn, and neither can any of Sharon’s other friends, Sharon sees a side of Officer Lynn that most don’t and wants to help her friend but doesn’t know how.

A: I’ve known these Officer Lynn types, and let me start by saying that Sharon is a bigger and better person than I am. I’m not known for my patience. But, this isn’t about me, it’s about Sharon and Officer Lynn. Sharon, dear Sharon, first and foremost, if you do care about your friend, the thing you must be is honest with her. If you can see how much people are put off by Officer Lynn’s obnoxious ways, as her friend you should tell her. It’s Armchair Psychology 101 that Officer Lynn is aggressive as a way to protect herself. If she’s so frustrated by her singledom and so fixated on it, it’s no wonder. But if you’re the only one who can stand to be around her (which is the impression I get), it sounds like she’s moving farther and farther away from the direction of finding the companionship she so desperately wants.

So you need to point this out to her. You should probably leave out the part about your husband and all of your friends not being able to stand her. Instead, take advantage of the fact that you have what she wants – a husband. Hold yourself up as an expert (kind of like I do!) And give her the advice that she should drop the wife talk and realize that you catch more flies with honey. If she’s reluctant, present it like a challenge – tell her to just try as an experiment to see how men respond to the kinder, more-toned down, less wife-obsessed Officer Lynn. If she's not having it, oh well.  At some point, Officer Lynn might just have to continue to sleep in the bed she's made for herself. Alone. You can only do so much.

Good luck! And bless you for trying out of the kindness of your heart to make life better for Officer Lynn.