Marriage is nothing like a romance novel - or - why are men fascinated with feces?

I still remember the day I met my Prince Charming. It was August 23, 2001, at the Redbone Alley restaurant in Sumter, SC. It was a Thursday because, even though we had been chatting via email and IM for the better part of four months, I wanted the "out" of having to work the next day if things didn't go well. I wore my most cleavage baring red shirt and butt enhancing jeans and he was dressed in a white button down shirt and jeans. The white set off his beautifully tanned skin, and he had a mass of dark brown wavy hair and full lips. When I saw him standing beside his truck about to walk into the restaurant, I knew we were going to be married. It really was love at first sight.

We had the best conversation over dinner, plenty of laughing and flirting and long stares, and when my perfectly timed call from my best friend came an hour later, I promptly hung up on her so I could get back to the business of having Rick fall in love with me. We were eventually kicked out of the restaurant so they could close up, and we each chipped in to give our waitress a huge tip since we had "cheated" her out of other tips for the night by staying so long. That night was our first date, and we were inseparable for the next year and a half. We were engaged December 14, 2002, and married the following June.

I remember standing in the room of the church that looked out over the sanctuary waiting for my long walk down the aisle when I saw Rick take his place next to the Reverend. My exact words were: "Oh Mom look how handsome he looks in his tux...HOLY SHIT I'M GETTING MARRIED!" My mother looked at me curiously, like she couldn't believe I waited this long to have a panic attack and asked "You're just realizing this," with a fist of death planted securely on her georgette covered hip.
"Well, I knew I was getting married, but it felt like someone else's wedding up until just now!" I could feel the lightheaded rush one only feels when one is on the verge of hyperventilating. It was this moment that my mother showed the true side of motherhood when she stroked her hand over my perfectly styled veil and then grabbed my hand and stroked it. I felt instantly better and then smiled at her. She then looked at me and asked "feel better?" I nodded. "Good," she said, "Now get your ass out there! There are a lot of people waiting to get drunk at your reception and none of the deposits are refundable!" As if on cue, the bagpipes started.

I realized marriage was not like a romance novel on our wedding night. We got home and looked at each other, knowing what was expected of us and in unison said "Let's just go to sleep." You see in a romance novel, I would have changed into some billowy, gossamer peignoir, and he, unable to contain his passion, would have hoisted me up in his arms, muscles rippling, and taken me forcefully, yet tenderly with his turgent manhood. Instead, he collapsed naked on the bed, farted, scratched his balls and started snoring almost immediately. I on the other hand, put on my most comfortable granny panties and ratty t-shirt and picked at a zit for 10 minutes before farting, scratching my butt and snoring.

It wasn't long after this that we fell into the groove of being a married couple. My first big lesson of married life: Men are obsessed with their crap. Funnily enough, before we were even engaged, I was sitting at his parents table when his father called his mother into the bathroom to show her his latest offering to the porcelain god. I later made Rick promise me he would never call me into the bathroom to look at his shit, reasoning that we would have excellent health insurance and could pay someone to do that for me if there was a problem. He kept his promise, and five years later I can say he has never wanted to show me his shit. Instead he likes to give me the play by play and color commentary. He will emerge from his alter of feces and declare "that one was sort of fuzzy", or "I think I know what happened to Jimmy Hoffa". Once when we were carpooling to and from work he would give me the play by play on the way home. Everyday. Without fail. Sometimes with sound effects worthy of a George Lucas film. Yes, romance is alive.

Five years into our wedded bliss, I've also learned that not only are men fascinated with their own poop, but they use it as an excuse to get out of everything, much the same way women use their period to skip gym class in high school. I figured this out when our son was a baby. Rick would be playing with Sam, having a great time and then abruptly hand him off to me and grab a newspaper. (For all you single girls out there, the grabbing of the newspaper is to the crap ritual like lighting the torch is to the Olympics...it signifies the opening ceremony. ) Right after he was safely ensconced inside his cocoon of elimination, I would realize our son needed a diaper change. The first couple of times I didn't catch on, but after I noticed the pattern the proverbial light bulb went off and I noticed it with other things. Now, when I mention what a mess the house is, it's off to the bathroom he goes. Just out of shear curiosity, I made him go about 11 times one day. I finally stopped when he started looking pale. You think Danielle Steele is ever going to write that into a novel...doubtful.