The Marriage Files

Readers send me a lot of interesting links. Following one of them the other day, I found myself looking at a document described as a “Guy’s Night Out Permission Form.”* It looks exactly like something you’d expect a felon on furlough to have to carry with him at all times. It specifies exactly where a guy on a woman’s leash may go, the hours during which he’s allowed to be without her supervision, the amount of alcohol he may consume, and the females with whom he may converse. There is a stripper clause requiring him to maintain a distance of 100 feet from any exotic dancer. Finally, there’s a vow of humility that the subservient male takes upon submitting the application, which can be denied without reason or appeal.

It’s a joke, of course, and I found it all the more so because it has absolutely no relevance to my married life. Other women apparently have a problem with their husbands wanting to spend a night out with the guys (or at least their husbands think they do). I have the opposite problem. I cannot get my husband to leave the premises for a few hours so I can have some girlfriends over for a little female bonding. I’m nearly ready to resort to paying him to just spend a lost evening, no questions asked. “Here, hon,” I’ll say as I tuck a few large bills into his wallet, “take some money and have a really good time. Just go!”

Don’t believe me? Let me tell you about a little faux pas I committed recently. I invited a bunch of girlfriends over for a Girls’ Night In. Girls’ Night In (as opposed to Girls’ Night Out) is a regular feature of my social life. Instead of painting the town red, I and a revolving assortment of gal pals stay in, pig out on pizza or egg foo young, and then lie around bloated with food hurling unsolicited comments at the television screen while we watch something along the lines of The Full Monty on video. It’s our opportunity to revel in chick flicks and let it all hang out.

Normally, my husband K— doesn’t have a problem with Girls’ Night In. He knows that he’s welcome to join us, but understandably, he makes himself scarce. He’s so unintrusive, friends have been known to ask, “Where’s K— tonight?” when he’s been in the next room no more than 20 feet away the whole evening. But he is still there.

And on the evening in question, he was not only there, but he had a problem with us being there. What was different this time is that I unintentionally scheduled Girls’ Night In for the same evening as the inaugural game of the regular NFL season. Ouch! K— and I only realized we had a programming conflict at about the time four of my guests were coming through the door.

Now, there’s only one television in our house, so you see the problem. It’s not like he could ensconce himself in the basement with a second TV. Not only were we women going to be using the only television in the house and the comfy couch, but to add insult to injury the movie on tap for the evening was To Wong Fu with Love, Julie Newmar. In a word, it’s about drag queens, so K— had to forgo watching the manliest of manly sports to make way for Wesley Snipes and Patrick Swayze parading around in pantyhose and baby doll pajamas.

As the evening was getting underway, K— pulled me aside and said (seemingly à propos of nothing), “So, if I understand this right, you’re the only woman here who lives with someone else.” Although I had no inkling of why he was asking me this, I reflected for a moment and realized that yes, all the women who had come over that night are unattached or are in long-distance relationships. I answered, “Yeah, hon, now that I think about it—you’re right. So?” “Then what I’m wondering,” he continued pointedly, “and I’m just asking…is why you’re having Girls’ Night In here.”

Suddenly, I understood the thrust of his inquiry. He was asking why we couldn’t be having Girls’ Night In at the home of one of my girlfriends whose regular household companions are mostly members of other species. I didn’t have a good answer, so I did what all spouses do at difficult moments—I just walked away.

The obvious solution to the problem was for K— to haul himself off to some friend’s house to watch the game. He wouldn’t have needed a Guy’s Night Our Permission Form from me. But while the prospect of missing the opening kickoff motivated K— enough to make him complain, it didn’t energize him enough to make him do something about it. Once he’s home from work, getting him to leave the house again before the alarm goes off the next morning is like pulling the proverbial teeth.

Truth be told, watching the season opener wasn’t that important to him. If our living room hadn’t been full of women hot to tuck dollar bills under the garter belts of two great big hunks (even if just virtually), he’d have turned on the game and, in all likelihood, walked away. He’d have returned for the last half of the last quarter, and then only if it was a close contest. In fact, I was a lot more overwrought about missing it than he was, since it turned out to be a match-up of my two favorite teams, the Pats and the Colts.

I may not have the wayward husband problem other women have, but I’ve printed a copy of that Guy’s Night Out Permission Form, and I’m going to put it to good use. In preparation for the next Girls’ Night In, I’ll fill it out, noting that K— may go anywhere until any hour with whomever he pleases, even exotic dancers. Then I’ll tape it to his computer monitor (where he’s absolutely certain to see it) along with a few twenties and hope he takes the hint.

* Go to http://www.joemorrow.com/funlinks.html and click on Guy’s Night Out Permission Form.

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