You may have heard I have a book launching next month. July 12th to be precise. Blacklisted from the PTA is available in paperback and Kindle. In case you hadn’t heard. I’m also having this big party to launch the book out into the world in style, and *god willing* sell a bunch of books — like enough to cover the cost of the Asian nut mix and the DJs at this party. I have a team of Uber Salespeople. All my best girlfriends really know how to move product! They set me straight several weeks ago about my meager sales goals.

“That’s your goal for 2011?” one of them said, face all scrinchy like I’d tried to serve her a virgin margarita. “No, no, no. That’s NOT your goal for 2011. It’s the goal for your launch.”

How could I say no to that kind of optimism? So off I went making posters and plans.

Cut to last night. I told my husband I needed to find someone to work checkout, run the credit card swiper. ”I can do it,” offered my sweet, well-meaning better half.

“Oh, no,” I said. “I need you to help with sales. Work your charm on all the ladies.”

“Okay, gotcha,” he said, puffing up. I had already mentally settled on a suitable checker when he added, ”What if somebody wants a refund?”

Seriously? A refund? Is this the first question my top salesman — my only salesMAN — should be asking? I’m not selling ill-fitting tops or outdated meat. It’s a book, MY book. Most of the people coming to the party are personal friends and acquaintances, or at least those who’d like to sell me life insurance.

THERE WILL BE NO REFUNDS. Got it?

That wasn’t the worst. I explained the discounts — you know, the cash incentives that compel people to purchase multiple copies of the most amazing collection of stories ever compiled behind a gratuitous image of legs and stilettos? He looked at me with the scrinchy face.

And said…

“Why would anyone buy more than one copy?”

My turn for the scrinchy face.

“Are you kidding me?” I said, “Friends, sisters, moms, birthdays, stocking stuffers, hostess gifts book clubs—”

Followed by his stop-acting-like-a-crazy-bitch calming gestures.

“Okay, okay. I didn’t know your marketing plan.”

My marketing plan, to be clear, is this: sell a lot of books.

So if you’re coming to the party, my husband will be easy to spot. He’ll be the one running the credit cards.

Image Credit: meghannash, Flickr

More About the Joys of Marriage:

• Showered in Miscommunication
• Match.com’s Got Nothing on This
• I Frighten My Husband, Daily

Sex, now that’s a worthy goal. It’s a form of communication, after all. And hotel sex? Even better.

To this end my husband and I packed an overnight bag and tossed a twenty at the kids on our way up to Eureka Springs for some much needed time away. We had reservations in a lovely haunted hotel, complete with tall ceilings, warped windows, and hundred year old furniture. After we’d settled in and opened the same riesling we drank on our honeymoon, I showered and started to get ready for our big night out. (Where big night out = eating pasta on a deserted balcony at the only restaurant that stayed open past 8pm.) Anyway, I was at the sink setting up the hair infrastructure when my husband started opening the drawers to the dresser.

He pulled out a penguin made of terry cloth and that soft but scrubby material, something you’d find overflowing from a basket at Bath and Body works during penguin awareness week.

“It’s a penguin loofah.” He turned it around in his hands.

“It’s not a loofah,” I corrected, “and I can’t believe you’re touching it.”

He looked at me and then the penguin.

“Seriously,” I said. “Put it down.”

He set the penguin back in the drawer and closed it slowly, methodically.

“What’s the big deal?”

“What do you mean what’s the big deal? You touched someone else’s scrubby. That’s disgusting.”

What he wanted to say: Get over it, freakish germaphobe. What he said: “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

I applied a second coat of mascara as my husband came up from behind me and put his hands around my waist.

“Seriously, wash your hands. I don’t want someone else’s ass germs.”

Confusion washed across his face. “Oh come on. The face thingy?”

I stopped applying blush. “That’s not what it’s for.”

Confusion was replaced by realization.

“So that thing hanging in our shower– that fluffy thing? You use it– on your– “

“Ass crack.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“You’re lying.”

“You don’t really use it on your face, do you?” It took several more minutes for me to convince him that I wasn’t just messing with him, torturing him for sport, as is my custom. ”It’s scrubby and soft. That’s what it’s FOR! It’s an ass scrubber.”

He sat on the ancient sofa and shook his head in disbelief, saying more to himself than to me, “I specifically don’t use that thing on my ass because I know it’s for your face.”

“That’s funny, Babe,” I said. “Because I specifically don’t use that thing on my face because I know it’s for your ass.”

The last time I was on the market, you had to do things the old-fashioned way, face-to-face with lipgloss and cheap beer. There was no easy weed-out mechanism and you couldn’t multitask a first date while simultaneously finishing up a work presentation and watching The Bachelor on DVR. Okay, I’m exaggerating. Nobody worth dating watches The Bachelor. Don’t get me wrong. I fully grasp the allure and I understand the desire to use an elaborate system of checkboxes to find the ideal mate, but, like unicorns and fat-free pizza, I don’t believe such a thing exists.

I turned away from my MacBook to face my husband, “Do you think we’d be matched up?”

Personally, I doubt any man-made algorithm would have put us together. Which may account for why we are still together.

My match looked at me and held back a sigh. “Did the internet even exist when we met?”

“No,” I said. “But we did have Match.com. It was called a bar.”

If you liked this one, check out these:

• Clubbin’ OKC Style
• A Night at the Wine Bar
• Sexy Things My Husband Won’t Do

Several years ago we sat down in a bright Dallas office of Charles Schwab and worked out a suitable asset allocation based on our low tolerance for risk and high desire to have a lot of money someday. After that, life interfered. The systematic review of our assets went the way of date nights. That is to say, it was neglected.

Then there was the whole stock market issue. Remember 2009? Or don’t. Neither my husband nor I had the stomach to look at our accounts for months. I kept telling him, “Don’t worry, everyone’s in the same boat.” When the communal sigh of relief was heard throughout the land as the Dow began to rise, our portfolio was still looking like a latte finance plan. I switched my encouragement to, “Don’t be such a baby. It’s not a trailer park; it’s a mobile home community.”

Because it was a date, and because my husband was coming from work, where he is still expected to wear something a notch up from yoga pants and flip flops, I dressed for our appointment with the banker. As I pulled on big girl slacks, I thought I’d better not gain weight, or lose it either. Ever. These may be the last nice clothes I’d ever own.

We were greeted, served coffee, and showed to an office where our retirement specialist explained to us the process of mapping out best case and acceptable case scenarios for our non-working future. We spent what I thought was an inordinate amount of time discussing the age at which my husband would retire.

“Fifty-five is ideal,” he said.

“Are you kidding me?” I said. “That’s in ten years. You have no hobbies. What would you do with the rest of your life?” And, I thought, I’ll be fifty. My need for cosmetic procedures will just be ramping up and those are not cheap.

“Okay, sixty.”

“Sixty-five.”

“You know,” the nice woman with the calculator said, “there are considerable benefits to waiting until you’re sixty-seven to stop working.”

“Ha!” I said. Such a romantic.

After a brief discussion of Social Security and far fewer questions about our saving and spending habits than I expected, we came to the “extras” section of the interview. This is where my husband asserted his need in retirement to buy a boat—a big one.

“Except I want to buy it now,” he told our trusted counselor.

“Okay,” she said. “We’ll work that into the calculation.” She turned to me. “One last question—how do you want me to treat your income? Should I count it as extra or include it in the overall forecast.”

“Put it toward my world travels,” I told her.

“Your travels?”

“Best case scenario.”

She turned to John. “Did you know about the traveling?”

He shrugged. “She doesn’t like my boat.”

However, when Bob failed to take our drink order, suggested we call him Big Bob, and embarked on a long reminiscence of his high school basketball career, it became evident we were on our own in the drink department. Amid Bob’s gregarious tale telling we collected drink orders and sent a scout to the bar. When she tried to hand the bartender a credit card, Bob intervened. The Big Man wanted to cover our round. Back in the circle of revelry much fuss was made over Bob’s generous contribution and soon we were sipping and chatting about other things.

At the same time, two more women showed up and joined our group. On one of his showy trips to the bar to fetch our drinks, Bob’s seat was taken. Instead of gallantly standing by, continuing to enjoy our company (including those of us who were also standing or less-than-comfortably perched on hard furniture), Bob asked one of us to get up so he could have her seat. Also, he wanted her to sit on his lap.

Um… no.

You don’t have to be young and sexy to get our attention. We appreciate conversation and appreciation. Even boring stories and the ill-advised hand on the leg we can accept, so long as you are entertaining us. But don’t push it.

“I just bought you drinks and you won’t even sit on my lap? That’s not very professional.”

Dear, sweet, pathetic Bob. Perhaps if you’re looking for a professional, you hit the wrong bar

If you liked this one, check out these:

• Clubbin’ OKC Style
• Sexy Things My Husband Won’t Do
• Match.com’s Got Nothing on This

I’m not sure I could handle the scene at this age, which–if my friends are to be believed–includes the following:

• men who have grandchildren, yet still live with their mothers
• women who run credit reports before the first date
• limited small town prospects that make dating after divorce feel like getting tossed into a bag of ‘Shake ‘N Bake until someone sticks
• too-high bikini area maintenance standards
• modern communication: did he really get my text?
• so much corporate travel you have to MapQuest your own address when you finally get home
• the new math required to determine how many dates until…
• exes and custody schedules

But go on, y’all – date. I enjoy living vicariously through you. I live to give you my bullshit all-knowing advice without having to personally suffer the emotional upheaval it causes. Who knows? You may end up married like me. Then I’ll be very helpful.

I won’t go into the individual stories, but I thought I’d let you in on the top excuses given to the traumatized children.

• We’re practicing our MMA moves.
• I’m just rubbing Mommy’s back.
• Sometimes Mommy likes to play Cowgirl.
• I’m looking for my phone.
• Oh come on, it’s nothing you haven’t seen on Channel 726.

and my personal favorite…

• Well I guess I’ll never be able to talk Mommy into THAT again.

The only person in our family who doesn’t immediately know who is on the phone is my husband, John. In his best 1950s Father voice he asks, “Who could be calling so late?”

It is 6:30.

I answer the phone and tell the sweet girl that my boy will call her back. Then I tell John he may have a very difficult decade ahead.

Recently one woman was going on and on about how there’s nothing she hates worse than some mustache twirling villain that’s just one hundred percent bad. I reminded her that she had no trouble accepting the cheating spouse in my novel who is also stupid, vain, and terrible in bed.

“Oh that’s different,” she says. “That was a husband.”

Disclaimer: The quotations reported in this blog reflect the opinions of those who said them. (Which is why they’re anonymous.) They do not necessarily reflect the view of the blog writer, who is at this writing happily married, to a man who–it’s probably best–doesn’t read this blog anyway.

I was warned that my husband might not like it, might take it personally.

He too would get over it too, I was sure. Cut to the end of the summer and me presenting my stack of paper, secured with a big black binder clip, to my husband. I pulled it back slightly

“Just remember,” I said. “It’s not you. It’s fiction. Got it?”

He agreed and I handed it over.

Two weeks later when he finally started reading it, I had almost forgotten he had it. That night he said, “That guy had a little basket.”

“Huh? What guy?”

“That guy, Rick, in the book. He had a little basket for his change and golf tees.”

First I laughed, but I pulled it together in order to address his concerns. I admitted that yes, the closet was ours, but the characters were not. I reminded him it was purely a work of fiction.

“Little too close to home,” he joked.

I figured more reassurance couldn’t hurt.

“You’re not the husband, Babe. You’re the hot neighbor guy. Duh.”

Just like that – problem solved. It’s fiction.