Skip to main content


There is nothing sexier than a man who can do for himself.  After a lifetime married to a man who couldn’t open a can to feed himself (and beer does not count.), couldn’t wash a sock if his life depended on it, and didn’t know which end of the broom was up, it was love at first sight when HoneyBunch invited me to his house for a dinner date.  

His ruthless abandon with onion and garlic left me weak and my mouth watered. When he placed this gargantuan ice cream dessert in front of me, my heart melted. He had me by the entrée, but when he insisted – I mean demanded - I sit and relax while he put the dishes in the dishwasher and actually scoured the pots and pans all by himself, I was his.

His house could use a woman’s touch and his wardrobe needed updating - but those things were negotiable and easily remedied when offset with his expertise with chicken. 

I knew I had met my soul mate - a man who could fend for himself and do for me too.  I married him three months later.


  1. One in a million, girlfriend! ;D

  2. Age changes the lens through which we view men. In our twenties, we loved athletes who mostly loved themselves. Now, I appreciate that my husband is the exact right height (short) for dancing, meaning fewer neck cricks (mine). My now husband remembers to take out the trash. His sexiest profile is posed with a broom in hand. Best of all are the neck and back rubs I get EVERY night we're together. Yes, I love being the wife of "one in a million." I never knew these jewels existed.


Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Happy Breastday to Me!

I gave myself a very special birthday present this year – I had surgery. Before you think it was to increase, decrease, or “lift” something, let me tell you it was not cosmetic (though I could probably use a few nips and tucks at my age; the infinite number of creams I buy OTC are not working their promised magic). About four or five months ago, I discovered a hard lump about the size of a large marble in my left armpit.  I had been feeling small pangs of pain in my left chest for several months, but I figured it was just my turn to dance with heart disease.  Everyone in my immediate family is diabetic and suffers from strokes or heart attacks, so I thought – here we go; my turn. I was going to tell my internist about the pangs during my next visit, so imagine my surprise when I discovered the lump. The Drama Queen in me immediately manifested herself – cancer, I thought.  I have cancer. I searched some more and found that the texture on the left side of my left breast felt diffe

Dating Challenged

I stink at dating – always have.   I sputter.   I hyperventilate.   I fail miserably every time. I blame a pathetically underdeveloped gene that got little use before I married in my early twenties, then atrophied, gathering dust and rust, until I became single again in my fifties.   I decided to use this defect to my advantage when I needed to do some investigative reporting a few years back.   While on a newspaper writing assignment on Boomer-aged dating, I sacrificed my dignity and my vanity for the sake of the story (and I got several). Thank goodness, HoneyBunch saved me from all this when we married.  (He comes up with the best dates.) I’ve decided I will “show you mine if you show me yours.”   I will swap dating horror stories with you, but you have to promise to play along. The trick here is to tell about your worst date in 25 words or less.   You must keep it clean and you cannot name names. Our little contest will run only this week and before my next blogger posting.   Me

The Girl Who Eats Canned Spinach

I went to a Catholic elementary school run by strict Belgian nuns, and we could not leave the cafeteria until we ate everything served on our food tray. Once a week, they served warmed, canned spinach with our meal. The spinach tasted nothing like the way my grandmother made it, but I ate it. I gulped it down in three or four bites and it amazed my table mates. I told them we ate it at home so I was used to the taste. Now, my real problem began the day I ate the spinach off my friends’ trays so we could go play outside. As soon as the nun monitoring the cafeteria turned her back, my friends ate something off my tray I didn’t want, and I ate their serving of spinach. I only did it for two of my table mates, but the word spread.   On the next Spinach Day, kids followed me to my table.   I was suddenly very popular, and as soon as the nun marched off to the other end of the cafeteria, my friends and an army of others who only knew me as The Girl Who Eats Spinach, begged me to take