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first date. And our first date in New York City was nothing short of magical.
     
    When he proposed a mere three months later, I was not shocked. Surprised, certainly, but not shocked. Of course, I said yes. I think the only person distressed initially by the suddenness of his proposal (top of Rockefeller Center at the Rainbow Room—very romantic) was my ever-practical mother who just wanted to know if I was pregnant. (No, Mom. Just in love.)
     
    Eighteen years and two kids later, he’s still out running errands for me. If you read my blog, you’ll know that if he’s at the grocery store, it’s as if he’s gone to a foreign country where they only speak wolf. But he still goes.
     
    He’s a giver…so while I may not have lucked out when it comes to having a grocery store adventurer, I’m happy.
     
    Remember ladies—the guy who does your errands is usually a giver in other ways (Yes. I am talking about sex.).
     
    So do what I did: Be like Santa. Make your list, check it twice.
     
    Then go with naughty and nice.
     
    ***
     
    “ Men get funny around large-breasted women—they talk to the breasts,
as if they will answer. Waiting, for the breast to shake hands.”
     
    DUDE. TEN O’CLOCK. CHECK IT OUT.
     
    Okay, if making lists for everything wasn’t hard enough, if you live in the OC, you have two sets of lists: the “real” list (mine), and the “plastic” list (when I step outside my door). Given that one Bravo Real (ahem) Housewives show is based here and that I’m surrounded by blonde plastic on a daily basis, my personal real list is front and center, baby.
     
    My husband loves my red hair, fair skin, freckles, and um, real body parts. Which is a good thing, given that we’ve been married so long and all. There is however, a certain amount of pressure to fit in here in the OC. Which I completely ignore.
     
    In the OC, we play “Are those real?” pretty much every day. In fact, there’s a term unique to this area for all the Pamela Anderson lookalikes: lollipops. Blonde chicks who look like they may um, tip over at any moment.
     
    My husband says it’s because we live here surrounded by women disfiguring themselves that my feminist leanings win out and I feel the need to riff on men. To kind of even things out. (Besides, there’s no Real Househusbands of Ridiculous and Shameful Behavior on Bravo, right?)
     
    And yet…I disagree. Men are doin’ it for themselves, dude.
     
     
     
    “ Looking at cleavage is like looking at the sun. You don’t stare at it. It’s too risky. You get a sense of it and then you look away” ~ Jerry Seinfeld
     
    We watch your eyes as you check out that chick.
     
    Newsflash: We see you.
     
    (It’s not like it was oh, a snake that slithered by that got your attention. In the middle of our dinner together. In a restaurant.) Well, actually…
     
    No, you are not sly. Yes, you are so busted. Yup. Every time.
     
    And yet…
     
    Sometimes we check her out, too. (Yeah, like those are real.)
     
    We understand that part of being a guy is your apparently uncontrollable need to check out other women. It’s not your fault women have breasts that venture into your line of sight…
     
    You can’t figure out, honestly, how on earth we get anything done.
     
    You’re not able to see another woman walk by without looking for the following reasons:
     
    –The female form is beautiful (We agree; why do you think we flaunt it?);
     
    –It would be a crime against nature not to look;
     
    –God placed women in front of you for your viewing pleasure.
     
    Sound familiar? (It should. It’s not only imprinted on your DNA if you’re straight; it’s also on page 53 of the Mancode manual.)
     
    Can you believe that some women don’t get this concept and will even take it personally that you would look at other chicks when you are with them? I’ve even seen couples fight about this.
     
    The nerve.
     
    Somehow those relationships never last. But I