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Rain, possible thunderstorms expected today; sunshine to return for the weekend

Indians fans again must wait until next year

The royal wedding is days away and I got bamboozled into making a speech.Or, maybe, I volunteered after slurping down a few of my special drinks. I think that&#8217;s what happened.To help get the wheels greased, I read a column on the HuffPost called: &#8220;Marital Advice from Couples Married 50+ Years.&#8221;As I read, I had a minimum quotient of three eye-rolls per piece of advice. I thought this was going to be real advice, not the pretend kind that every magazine in America offers.Sigh.I didn&#8217;t want to have to do this, but I have no choice. I&#8217;m being forced to call bull crap on the bull crap.The article says talk to each other about issues instead of venting to friends.Too late.I probably vented to my friends at my wedding reception.Although I love my Nancy, I didn&#8217;t marry my best friend. (Even though that&#8217;s now legal in Pennsylvania). Everyone says they marry their best friend, but you know they lie. I don&#8217;t talk to him about this season&#8217;s new boots or hot flashes or estrogen. He could care less about my Real Housewives. That juiciness is meant for my friends&#8217; ears only. I will vent to my friends, pretend to tell him important things, and he will ignore me with the remote in his hand, and that&#8217; s just how we play this gig called marriage, for almost 30 years.They say kids make your marriage stronger. I say they made my marriage poorer.Stronger? Debatable.They say to give each other personal space. If a 110-acre golf course is not enough personal space, then I suggest he move to outer Mongolia and live in a yurt.They say marriage isn&#8217;t always 50/50.No. Kidding.They tell me to make an effort to look my best.Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.No.If he cannot love me at night in my boxers and T-shirt, with my glycolic mask pasted on, my mouth guard in place, and a mighty mustache forming on my upper lip, then he doesn&#8217;t deserve to bask in the glory that is me during the day.They tell me that love means being a team. I know there&#8217;s no &#8220;I&#8221; in team, but there is an &#8220;I&#8221; in Team Maria.They tell me to talk about marital issues face to face.No texting.What?How will I contact him to demand: &#8220;Put down that Pabst and get home right now. And sleep on the couch because I&#8217;m sure you smell.&#8221;Texting is so much more effective when I want to throat-punch him; so many emojis to convey my feelings of fury.They tell me we should always have date night. My parents had six children and come hell or high water (and there was high water), they went out to dinner every Thursday night until they were in their 80s.Date night. Hmmm.Someone better tell my husband date night should probably be with me and not his girlfriend, Joey, bellying up to the Fox Hill bar. He&#8217;ll be devastated.I&#8217;m probably not the person to be giving this wedding speech. I&#8217;m too honest, too jaded, too honest. Maybe I&#8217;ll be better suited for this task after being married 50 plus years. Because apparently, at that point, your memory of marriage becomes super-foggy and you only remember the mediocre stuff like, &#8220;Never go to bed angry.&#8221;Please.I would never sleep again. Insert exasperated emoji here. And then text me.We have stuff to vent about, friends.<style>
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<div class="metaInfo"><bylineMeta>Maria Jiunta HeckLife Deconstructed</bylineMeta></div><div class="metaInfo"><shirttailMeta>Maria Jiunta Heck of West Pittston is a mother of three and a business owner who lives to dissect the minutiae of life. Send Maria an email at mariajh40@msn.com.</shirttailMeta></div>

Life Deconstructed: Marriage advice for the real world