….macho! macho! man! you’re gonna be a macho man…

I was upstairs and my husband was in the kitchen when I heard him yell, “J! J! You won’t believe this!”

I appeared at the upstairs landing, bracing myself for something remarkable.

E came out of the kitchen, the little yellow dog* nipping at his heels, and looked up at me, his Treo in his palm, so I knew he’d just been text-messaging. “David and Bill are not going clubbing tonight,” he announced.

Seeing as David and Bill are two of our swinging bachelor VIP-table-addicted club-hopping friends, who show up at events and dinner parties with SYT** after SYT, this was indeed news of a sort.

E continued, “They’re going to see THE LAKE HOUSE instead.”

“Well,” I said. David is a producer and sees movies as part of his obsession and his job, and when you scratch the surface of Bill’s partying ways you find this lost-soul romantic. Bill has recently declared his intention to put away the SYTs and find a smart educated older (read: around 30) woman he might actually enjoy talking to. I am curious to see how this quest of his evolves, since smart educated older women tend not to hang out in the same places Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton do. “The guy who wrote that wrote PROOF***,” I said reasonably. “Which won the Pulitzer.”

“Yeah. But they’re guys. And they’re going to see a chick flick.”

Ah. My husband won’t follow a football or basketball game to save his life, and yet there are times when I realize he’s about as macho as they come. “That? You want me to wear that? I can’t wear that. I’m going to the office. I can’t look cool and sexy.”

“Honey,” I tell him, “believe me. This does not make you look cool and sexy.”

“I can’t be too, like, fashion-forward.”

“Honey,” I tell him, “believe me. You aren’t.” And I wonder if I should be bringing in some Paul Smith and Versace and Prada shirts just to readjust his wacked frame of reference.

Then he complains that the clothes he just bought at Neiman Marcus are too boring and middle-aged and he’s having second thoughts about many of his purchases. Well. Whose fault is that?

*That’s our dog Leroy. We have three dogs, but Leroy is the bad-ass.

**Sweet Young Thing

*** Really liked the play, if not the Gwyneth Paltrow movie version.

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