I’ve always thought it would be rather fun to have my own advice column—like Dear Abby or Ask Ann—but, naturally, my column would be called Dear Ms Carol, for obvious reasons. Moreover, in my column, just like Abby and Ann, I would provide sage advice to all the dear readers who wrote to me seeking my wise council. However, unlike Abby and Ann, or any other self-proclaimed psychotherapist, I would not take myself seriously. For that matter, if I were a reader, I would not take me seriously either, especially since I am no more qualified to dispense advice than my cat, Bug, or my dogs, Bogart and Beanbag. I am, however, like most advice columnists, a writer suffering from delusions of grandeur, who has convinced herself that readers might actually give a hoot about what she has to say. 

So you ask, “Ms Carol, what kind of sage advice would you provide to your dear readers?”

Good question, and since I myself have been rather curious, I asked a friend to write a letter to Dear Ms Carol and that letter follows, along with my astute and quite clever rejoinder:

Dear Ms Carol,

My husband, “Ned,” is driving me crazy with his jealousy. But let me make it clear that he has no reason to be jealous; he simply is. I think it has something to do with his first marriage, although he refuses to talk about it. Anyway, Ned wants to know where I am every hour of the day. You won’t believe this, but he goes through the receipts whenever I come home from shopping at the mall, checking the time I left one store against the time I left another or the time I spent in a restaurant perhaps having lunch with a friend—a female friend, I might add. And if Ned thinks there is too much time unaccounted for or too large a gap between the time I checked out of one store and the time I checked out of another, he demands to know where I was, what I was doing, and who I was with. He also pouts for days, going around the house and mumbling that I must be cheating on him. Please help. I love him, but I’m at my wits end.

Signed,

Wife of a Stalker

Dear Stalker’s Wife,

There’s an old saying about husbands: “You can’t live with ‘em; you can’t shoot ‘em”. Then again, maybe it’s “You can’t live with ‘em; you can’t live without ‘em.” Not that it matters, since either way the saying makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

Why? Well, because, yes, one can shoot one’s husband, but what woman in her right mind is going to shoot a husband when she can make him suffer for the rest of his life by divorcing him and getting the house; the car; the furniture (All but the hideously tacky pieces he either possessed before marriage or else insisted on purchasing after marriage); his wide-screen TV, complete with its elaborate surround-sound system; life-long alimony (remember, you only lose it if you remarry, so fight the urge if it ever strikes you—just keep telling yourself it’s like  gastric distress and it will pass); child support (if there are rug-rats involved); plus his retirement account and stock portfolio (not that stocks are worth much at the moment, but hold on to them then sell when the market stabilizes).

As for living without a husband, that’s a no brainer because a woman sure the heck can live without a husband and have a lot more fun doing so. Just think about it—no more dirty underwear and socks scattered about for you to pick up; no more water splashed all over the bathroom for you to wipe up; no more cooking meals when you aren’t in the mood; no more having to see him sitting on the sofa—surrounded by beer cans and empty potato chip bags—during football season; no more being kept awake by his snoring; no more having to listen to him curse the cat; and no more writing letters to Dear Ms Carol complaining about your husband’s irrational behavior. 

But I digress, so back to your problem: If, for some unfathomable reason, divorce is out of the question, I suggest you teach Ned a lesson by showing him just how utterly ridiculous he is acting. So, the next time you go to the mall, get an early start—be there when the doors open—and visit as many stores as humanly possible, purchasing something, anything, no manner how trivial or unnecessary, in each and every store. However, you should make a point of lingering in some stores but not in others. Then, leave the mall and meet a girlfriend for lunch at a nearby restaurant, where you should have a leisurely meal and chat a while, perhaps maligning men in the process. Next, return to the mall and repeat the same process as before—let’s call it “store-hopping.” Then, in the middle of the afternoon, meet another girlfriend, this time for coffee. Linger over the coffee; catch up on gossip; then off you go to the stores once again. Remember, the important thing is that you accumulate as many sales receipts as possible. In fact, a purse filled to brimming with receipts is preferable. Then, when you walk into the house that evening, dump the purse’s contents into Ned’s lap, and say, “Here you go. Have fun, Lover Boy.” 

Oh, well, then again, maybe I'm too long-winded to be an advice columnist.