(Stacey's Note: While I often gripe about having too much on my plate, this week, I actually did. So I asked fellow writer and good friend John Valeri of Hartford Books Examiner fame to help out. Besides having a delightful sense of humor, John also has the endearing quality of not being able to say "No" when  you beg him for a blog post. I hope you enjoy John's reflections on the women in his life as much as I did.)


Women I Love (Besides My Wife) by John Valeri

“Your poor wife! She must be a saint ...”

Those words have become a familiar refrain in my life, and while most people tend to trail off at that point in some semblance of politeness, the “to put up with you” is clearly implied. Allow me to set the record straight: my wife is many things, but a saint is not one of them. Fortunately, she is good-humored. Quite beautiful, also. And impressively tolerant.

I, too, am many things. Obsessive. Compulsive. Fanatical.

I’d like to think that these traits make me the ideal life partner. After all, obsession and fanaticism are pretty much synonymous with loyalty. And who doesn’t want a loyal husband, right?

Of course, when you consider that this loyalty also applies to the women that came before my wife, you understand the potential for conflict. Fortunately, all of these prior relationships have been of a platonic nature.

And while some people might question this seemingly endless parade of lady friends, I firmly believe that I have the capacity to love them all … 

Gloria Estefan

I can’t tell you how many people have asked if, or assumed that, Gloria Estefan is my wife. That’s not to say they always recognize her as “the Conga Queen,” but the picture of us that adorns my desk at work—and the second one that serves as my computer’s backdrop—apparently creates the false impression that we’re a bit more intimately acquainted than is actually the case. Go figure. Having said that, I do maintain that Gloria is (and was, and always will be) the first lady of my life. Long before Chelsey became the music of my heart—hey! See what I did there?—Gloria turned my beat around, providing the soundtrack to my youth. Chelsey has made her peace with this, and we’ve since followed Gloria across the globe together (all the way to Canada!), incurred bucket-loads of debt, and done all kinds of shameless things in pursuit of the true G-spot.   

Oh, and in my defense: my wife’s picture also holds a place of honor on my desk—it’s just a tad less prominently placed than Gloria’s ...

Marcia Clark

Yes, that Marcia Clark. She may have come out on the losing side of the “Trial of the Century” but she won in the court of public opinion—and in the recesses of my teenaged heart. I’ve been told I have a thing for older women who possess, ahem, strong opinions and colorful vocabularies. Perhaps this little infatuation is the proof? Anyway … seventeen years after my twelve-year-old self took up the Marcia mantle I met her while she was traveling on a book tour. (Did you know she’s a brilliantly accomplished crime novelist now? No? For shame!) I knew we were destined for BFF’dom from the very moment that I asked her not to take out a restraining order on me and she replied: “Everybody knows those only make you try harder.” And then she laughed—she does that often, and infectiously—and we’ve been compadres ever since. Bonus points: the rhythm dun got her, as Marcia is a fellow Glo-head.

Neve Campbell

What can I say? As a neurotic and perpetually anxious child, I avoided horror movies like the proverbial plague. And then one night I made the fateful decision to watch Scream alone in the dark. The only thing that tempered my absolute terror was the hot, frightened girl-next-door who had the moxy to drop a TV on her would-be killer’s head. Snap! Nobody does the strong-yet-vulnerable thing better than Neve Campbell, and I’m a sucker for a woman in need of saving. (That’s no reflection on you, Chelsey—I swear!) Which is probably why, when writing my own obituary for a high school Journalism class, I fancied myself transitioning to the great beyond during a moment of coital bliss in Ms. Campbell’s trailer. And yes, she was screaming—but the good kind. For that reason alone, I forgave her when she dropped out of the TV pilot based on Marcia’s books.

Are there more women? Of course there are! But I don’t want to brag. Besides, I’ve got packing to do. Gloria’s expecting me in Chicago. Don’t get the wrong idea, though—I invited my wife to join us …

(Stacey here again. If you enjoyed John's post, please take a moment to go visit his Hartford Books Examiner page at http://www.examiner.com/books-in-hartford/john-valeri. Because John is not only awesome, but he really saved my neck this week. Thank you!)

Jason and I have been married for exactly five years today. Had you asked me seven years ago if I would ever marry again, I probably would have spit on you. But my hubby tricked me into it somehow, and here we are, still together.
Marriage is hard. And I'm not talking about the finances, or big decisions like having children and where to spend Christmas. I can deal with that stuff. It's the little things, like perhaps my spouse's inability to put a single dish in the dishwasher, even though it is right next to the sink. THAT's the kind of example that makes me daydream about how happy I was when I was single.
I'll admit it, though: I'm no cup of easy street either. For instance, I am a rabid, raging harpy until I get at least half a pot of coffee in me. It's in these early hours of the morning that I'm most likely to say "You know what would be nice? If you moved back in with your parents." 
Also, I can hold a grudge. For a looong time. About things that one might never realize I'm upset about.

Jason: We haven't had chicken and dumplings in, like . . . ever.
Me: I think you know darn well why I will never make you chicken and dumplings.
Jason: Huh?
Me: Remember on June 3, 2007? In the Bisquick aisle at the grocery store? When you said maybe I should read a recipe on how to make chicken and dumplings? How DARE you imply that I need a recipe? You can choke on your dumplings, pal!
Jason: Huh?

Also, there are a couple of traits we both have that don't always mesh together well. Jason, for instance, does not like to order new foods, but he likes to try and sample whatever is on my plate. I, on the other hand, am not good at sharing. Oh, sure, my parents taught me to share at an early age, making me split everything with my sister. And you know what? I am GREAT at sharing with my sister. We'll share bowls of chowder, slices of cake, members of Duran Duran . . . but I am not so good at sharing with Jason. After spending 15 minutes listening to him gripe about how there's nothing on the menu he likes, then watching him order chicken fingers (in an italian restaurant) while I opt for the steak gorgonzola over fettuccine, I am not particularly tolerant when I see his fork slowly creeping towards my plate for a taste. That's often when we playfully engage in a game I like to call "Move Your Hand Closer So I Can Stab You." He also has an uncanny knack of doing this at every meal when I'm on Weight Watchers. (I'm eating steak gorgonzola over fettuccine, people. Of course I need to go on a diet.) Note to all of you married men out there: When your wife is on a strict diet of 1200 calories a day, don't even think about taking one little mouthful of our carefully measured-out food away from us. We'll kill you, and no jury in the world will convict us.

Sure, the man can't wash a dish, or cook, and I often refer to myself as Dobby the House Elf when I'm feeling put upon. But he does do a couple of things that make up for it. Jason is always urging me to get more of my writing out there, and when I do send out stories that get accepted, he's tireless about promoting me and bragging about me. If my novel is rejected, he's the first one to tell me the publisher is clearly a tasteless, illiterate idiot, and he won't let me dwell on that rejection, but will suggest other markets to send it to next. And he's great about knowing how to cheer me up. He loves to surprise me by running to the library and renting a terrible B-movie if I'm feeling blue. A couple of weeks ago, I was depressed over a big project that's been overwhelming me. There was Jason, beaming: "Look, honey! Sharknado!" And you know what? It did cheer me up!

So for those of you thinking about getting married, my only advice is to make sure you two know all of the ugly details about each other before tying the knot. Jason was fully aware of my caffeine addiction prior to the wedding, and to his credit, he didn't run when I threatened to shave "Cream, two Splenda" into the side of the cat so he'd remember how I like my coffee. I knew prior to tying the knot that Jason was incapable of cooking anything more then ramen noodles in the kitchen (and, disgustingly enough, he microwaves them). It's okay. Because you know what? This marriage thing is working for us. So far.

Happy Anniversary, Jason!