Tuesday marked the day that my beautiful wife and I got married 13 years ago. It also marked the fourth (fifth?) time we forgot about it and let the day pass without mention or fanfare. Hell, we even wrote it on the calendar and we still forgot about it until yesterday, and even then it was just, “Oops, we missed it again.”

I’m sure some of you are wondering how we could let such an important occasion just slide by. Well, because it’s not an important occasion to us. Sure, there have been years when we have surprised each other with a gift or night out, but just as many that were celebrated with a handmade card, or a note left on the laptop. Here’s the thing — getting married is the easy part. It’s staying married that requires the daily commitment, work, and compromise. Setting aside an extra day to celebrate our marriage just seems superfluous — we celebrate it 24/7. If my wife needs that one day a year set aside where she’s made to feel special and loved, then I’m not doing my job the other 364 days. But as it is, we couldn’t be more devoted to one another, and each envision growing old and frail together. (Jessica, feel free to step in and correct me if I’m wrong.)

So are we just freaks, or does anyone else out there feel the same way about their wedding anniversary (and its little brother Valentine’s Day and inbred cousin Sweetest Day)? Or if you’re the complete opposite, please lend a differing point of view.

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New research by a University of Alberta sociologist shows that kids of divorced parents are much more likely to be prescribed Ritalin:

Dr. Lisa Strohschein, in a study appearing in this week’s issue of the Canadian Medical Association Journal, found that children whose parents divorce are nearly twice as likely to be prescribed Ritalin compared to children whose parents remain together.

I ride the fence when it comes to Ritalin and the like. I believe ADHD is a real condition, and one that can be treated with proper use of medication. But I also think that, like Prozac, the drugs are prescribed way too often by general practitioners not qualified to make an assessment. My initial thought when reading the opening of the article was that maybe the kids developed behavioral problems because of the stress of the divorce, and the same stress diminished the custodial parent’s coping skills leading them to turn to pharmaceuticals for support. Turns out Dr. Strohschein agrees:

One potential explanation for the higher use of Ritalin could be that divorce is stressful and some kids develop mental health problems and are then appropriately prescribed the drug, says Strohschein.

But there is also the possibility that divorce acts a stressful life event that creates adjustment problems for children, which might increase acting out behaviour, leading to a prescription for Ritalin.

It’s this reckless use of Ritalin that creates the stigma of shame and guilt for parents whose kids can really benefit from it.

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Although it might appear that I spend all my time reading celebrity magazines–and I won’t deny that prolonged exposure to articles about Paris Hilton can cause brain damage–I would like to state for the record that the bookshelves in my home demonstrate our diverse taste in literature and non-fiction. We read a lot and we don’t limit ourselves to any one type of book. That said, I confess that –occasionally– I require a little “cheese pause” between the wine courses that constitute my reading diet and I have a particular weakness for People and US magazines–the Velveeta and Cheez-Whiz of non-essential celebrity news.

I enjoy it mostly because it requires only a couple of my functioning and oh-so-important-brain cells to understand what is being said and because, when you’re writing for the level of a mind that cares even a little bit about K Fed’s laryngitis or Heather Locklear’s new tattoo…well…it’s best to set the “journalism” bar low. You catch my drift?
So there I was today in the salon paying good money to maintain my original hair color having my hair done and I spied an article about Christie Brinkley’s cheating dog of a husband, Peter Cook. Here he was, an established architect, married to a successful businesswoman/ex-model who was already a famous “somebody” before she married him ten years ago. At 52, Brinkley’s still quite stunning and certainly more than Cook deserves, when you consider that he felt entitled to pursue a couple of 18-year old girls and engage in affairs with them during the course of the marriage.

Of course, if I became unraveled every time I heard about a middle-aged man who thought he deserved to wrap his aging flesh around something younger and firmer than the woman presently enslaved married to him, I’d have to request a 24-hour Effexor drip just to make it through the day. It wasn’t the fact that he was a cheater that came as a surprise. No, the real shocker was the excuse that was offered to explain away his *cough* youthful indiscretion as it is often categorized when important/famous men continue to screw up their lives after age 40.

So here it is, folks. The real reason Peter Cook couldn’t keep it in his pants: He didn’t like being the second banana in the marriage. It hurt his ego to be thought of as merely the husband of Christie Brinkley, rather than El Numero Uno.

*sniff* The next sound you hear will be the fists of generations of second bananas women beating their fists on the satin-lined lids of their coffins…six feet under and mad as hell.

Dear Peter,

I’m sorry but that tired old excuse just won’t wash with me. Nope, not a bit. Hey…go ask your mother if you don’t believe me…that is, if she’s still speaking to you. See, this may come as a bit of a surprise to you, but there is no law that says your ego is more important than that of your wife. No rule that says she needs to step out the spotlight she made for herself because it makes you feel bad about yourself. No edict requiring her to defer to you in such a way as to preserve the false notion that the man always gets to be the…you know…big cheese. To put it in pre-school parlance: YOU ARE SO NOT THE BOSS OF HER.

If there was, in fact, a natural order to the world wherein men were always superior, successful, wise and made good choices and women were a bunch of lame-o sheep who always follow a pre-ordained and very narrow life path, you’d see it all the time. My husband would read the New York Times every morning and I would be satisfied to stimulate my brain by daily exposure to a 64-pack of Crayolas and my Scooby-Doo coloring book. That phenomenon of superior/inferior would unfold all by itself –every single day and without coercion or threat.
And I’ll tell you another thing: If your self-importance was truly natural men wouldn’t have needed hundreds of years of laws that made it illegal for women to become educated or use their skills to do something besides rinse out your socks nor would you need organized religion reminding women how fun it is to be a “joyful servant” to their husbands. None of that would be necessary…because your fragile ego would be Priority One all of the time and the entire Red Sea of intelligent and creative women (if any such thing existed) would part and kneel down for you every time you you needed to scrape your muddy shoes on a random neck.

You owe your wife, for starters, a huge apology. You’ll notice, by the way, she didn’t take your last name. There may be a reason for that. Don’t forget to ask her about it, even though it’s really a stupid tradition that should be stopped ASAP. Also toss out a big “I WAS WRONG” to your kids for being such an atrocious specimen of the male species. You give your daughter the impression that this is how men are allowed to treat women and she that should just “lie back and think of England”. Plus, you pass along your wrongheaded entitlement chromosome to your son. Another apology to your mother because, God knows, she might have sacrificed a promising career of her own to raise your sorry ass better than that.

While you’re at it, apologize to all women who gave up a perfectly good identity to chafe daily under the the burden of a name that isn’t really theirs in the first place. Say you’re sorry to the billions of wives who played second banana to even the WORST kind of husband…for no other reason than because that’s what a “good wife” was required to do…or ELSE. Then, ask for a show of hands from anyone–any group of WOMEN–to see if any of them enjoy living in the shadow of a man and if they feel the least bit sorry for you. What??? No takers? Imagine that.

Happy Trails, loser.

Stacy SCHNELLENBACH Bogle

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