Five and half rules for a happy marriage...

These rules came to me in a dream. They are in no way based upon my real life experiences. 

• Rule #1 - Wives should always remember to say thank you.  Some wives have lived with their spouse for 31 years, and begin to take him for granted.  Remembering to appreciate him for changing a light bulb or carrying a laundry basket up the stairs is the right thing to do.  It also boosts the probability that husbands will, in the future, go to the grocery store at 10:30 pm because there is no more Breyer's Cookie Dough ice cream and some wives have had the crappiest day ever.  

What a happily married  man!

• Rule#2 -  When wives, who probably have a touch of ADD and some spatial  issues, accidentally smash cars into things like garage doors, those big yellow concrete posts at the bank drive up window and even, on occasion, other cars, their fondest hope is that husbands will react with grace and dignity.  And forgiveness.  Plus, some wives would hope husbands realize that a 12 year old Honda mini-van with extensive body work (Surely they'll total it this time, the wife often thinks) is not, in fact, a cherry red Mini Cooper.  With leather seats.  And a manual transmission.

• Rule#3 -Wives should stop losing their debit card.   Husbands really don't think it is cute that some wives are on a first name basis with the customer service reps at the banking center.

• Rule#4 - Husbands should never decide to trim all of the bushes in the yard (and there are thousands of bushes in the yard), put down the trimmer and go inside the house to watch the Golf Channel.  There is a very high likelihood that wives will react to filling 23 yard waste bags during a record-setting heat wave with just a smidgen of hostility.  I have no way to be sure about this, since these are hypothetical scenarios, but I have a hunch...

• Rule#5 - Wives should never interrupt husbands who are on an important conference call with "Honey, what is your biggest pet peeve about me?"  This does not contribute to marital harmony, and he won't answer anyway.

• Rule#5 and 1/2 - Wives should always ask their husbands for permission before blog posts such as this one.  And then publish anyway.

Dear Mr. Candy Crush...

Since we got our first computer back in the 90's, and the only thing I could figure out to do with it was play endless rounds of Solitaire, I have liked to play computer games.  They're a great way to pass time or avoid folding laundry.  I tell myself that I am participating in vital brain training while I am playing, although I have yet to find a direct connection between my professional life and my skills with Free Cell.

Recently, I decided to see what this Candy Crush Saga is all about.

In case you never log onto Facebook, this seems to be the game of the moment.  In fact, have a look at what a Google search for this blog uncovers:

The irony of this placement does not escape me.

Huh.

Anyway, my obsession with Candy Crush has begun to creep up on me.  I think that my next paycheck may just cover the cost of adding extra lives and candy bombs.  I'm stuck at level 32, and if you have any insider information about how to beat this level, send me an email.

Until my Candy Crush binge began, I had, for the sake of my own mental health, sworn off computer games.  All because of Hay Day.

A few months ago someone told me about this game, a farming experience described as fun and requiring critical thinking.

To me, these words are as alluring as buy one pair, get the second half off!

Hay Day is fun.  You get a farm, chop down trees, buy animals, plant crops, milk cows, collect eggs and shear sheep.  You either sell your products or use your crops to make baked goods or knit tiny blue hats.

I loved Hay Day.  I loved it so much that I began planning social engagements around harvest time.  I started to excuse myself from my classroom (sorry kids, Miss Laura needs to use the bathroom) to milk cows. I scoured the internet  for cheats, fully aware that most of the information I was using was posted by lonely adolescent boys.

Then, there were the diamonds.  Diamonds give you the ability to harvest immediately and buy more farm machinery.  And I could never get enough.  Of course, to increase your diamond stash, you only have to spend a little money.  Like 99 cents.  Or $1.99.  You buy them through your iTunes account, so it's not real money.

On the day my finger hovered above the buy button that would have netted me 2500 diamonds for only $49.99, I realized that I needed to walk away.  My level 38 farm still exists in the ether, neglected and full of starving livestock.  I have chosen to be OK with that.

I was strong against my addiction until I discovered Candy Crush Saga.  It's fun, and mindless, and fills dead hours when I could be working on my novel.

It even provided conversation fodder with my daughter.

Communication with grown children is easy!

Only I have discovered one major flaw with Candy Crush Saga.  It's Mr. Candy Crush.

Mr. Candy Crush is the voice who comes on when you make a particularly lucky skillful move and crush huge amounts of candy.  In a deep baritone, he says things like "sweet" and "tasty."

But Mr. Candy Crush is creepy.  Hearing his encouraging words makes me feel like I am hanging out in a 90's single bar, permed and acid-wash clad.  His voice makes him sound like he should be on some sort of registry and has a court order to remain 500 feet away from local playgrounds.

So I have taken to turning the sound off when I indulge in candy crushing.  But I have come up with a great idea for Mr. Candy Crush, one particularly relevant to women my age.

Mr. Candy Crush needs a soft Scottish accent.  And I have compiled a list of the things that he should be saying:

• Good job! Hot flashes are attractive!
• Sweet! Remember that your children value the parenting you provided!
• Tasty!  Your inner beauty is not diminished by stray chin hairs!
• Delicious! Flabby upper arms are a sign of wisdom!

So, in case you run into the twenty-something guys that are writing the code for Candy Crush Saga in their parent's basement, please pass this on.

Sweet!