A: Dear Dry-spell Debbie,
I wanted to open with a thank you for the vote of confidence. It means a lot to me personally that I get this opportunity to connect with my readers, and hopefully educate you on more than how to repurpose leftover Spam or style the perfect asymmetrical bob (which I have no experience with anyway).
I applaud your courage to reach out for help. This sounds more like a health issue than a marriage dilemma. Considering your husband’s working conditions in a steel mill, he is more than likely exposed to myriad chemicals that could be causing his symptoms of lethargy and other unrealized health problems. Thus, all of this could be more than just a hard day at work taking its toll.
My first recommendation would be for him to do a daily cleanse to detoxify his body. This could include drinking green tea and adding turmeric to his diet. And don’t forget to replace that Schlitz beer with water!
In addition, he’ll want to consume more vitamin B12 to boost his energy. I won’t bore you with the details of how B12 can promote methylation pathways, but trust me, it helps. And since B12 is found in red meat, I’m sure your husband won’t mind an extra steak dinner or two each week!
An extra tip for curing the under-the-covers drought: chocolate for you and epimedium plant for him. It’s not called horny goat weed for nothing!
Last, but most importantly, you should not be waiting and wondering for anyone. As the esteemed Van Gogh also said: “If you hear a voice within you say, ‘You cannot paint,’ then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced.” Find your passion and silence the voice that keeps you up at night. Your husband is not the only one who deserves to thrive.
Sincerely,
Samantha
Chapter 9
“Houston, we’ve had a problem!” Franklin Getty yelled, quoting the famous line from last month’s Apollo 13 oxygen tank explosion that had the world watching in horror on the edge of their seats.
“What kind of problem?” Sam stared at her boss numbly, wondering what she had done this time to upset him.
“What is this hogwash? How did we publish this?” Mr. Getty waved a newspaper at Sam while the now-disbanded Beatles sang “Let It Be” from a state-of-the-art stereo coffee table.
He tossed the article Sam had spent weeks drafting, then writing, then editing, at the garbage can beside his desk and missed it by about five feet. A stack of copies of the already-published May 1970 issue that Mr. Getty apparently hadn’t proofed sat in front of him, and Sam wondered if he planned to toss every last one of them.
“Do you mind?” Sam waited inside his office doorway, aiming her finger at the Drexel stereo that cost more than her monthly wage, then pointed to her ears.
The room was littered with empty bottles of champagne, crushed cans of Schlitz beer, and a tray with two deviled eggs left over from the office mixer Sam hadn’t been invited to. A pair of white go-go boots lay haphazardly on the floor next to the orange sofa that Mr. Getty sat on. He snuffed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray, rolled his eyes, then clicked the music off.
“You need to appreciate technology more, Samantha. That was Vibrasonic reflected sound energy with dynamic sound focus and a three-channel output. Swell, huh?”
“Yes, swell.” Sam could care less about any of those words, let alone what they meant. All she learned from it was that when Mr. Getty told her a raise wasn’t in the budget, now she knew why.
He looked at her expectantly, but she was only standing in the editor-in-chief’s office because he had beckoned her. And when Mr. Getty beckoned, you came. Or else you were demoted to mailroom, which was considered by many to be the tenth circle of hell.
“Did you call me to discuss my column for the May issue?” Sam ventured a guess, growing irritated.
“Oh, right.” Mr. Getty gestured to the other end of the sofa. “You’ll want to sit for this.”
“I prefer to stand.”
“Suit yourself.”
Sam entered the office and stood rather than sit on a mysterious woman’s fur coat that was far too warm for the balmy spring weather, and which took up the other two cushions that Mr. Getty didn’t occupy. The coat looked suspiciously a lot like Betty Number Five’s, who was young enough to be Mr. Getty’s daughter but overeager enough to be his mistress. Sam scribbled a mental note to have a chat about self-respect with Mr. Getty’s new secretary later.
“So, about your article,” he picked up another copy and glanced at it, “what is this crap?” Then he slammed Sam’s newly minted advice column on the coffee table as he revved up for an ear beating that Sam had already steeled herself against.
“It’s called Samantha Says, sir. I take it you don’t like it?”
It was obvious that he didn’t, but Sam dutifully adopted the role of naïve simpleton because the only way to calm the raging lunatic down was to make him pity her. He couldn’t berate someone who didn’t know better. Like a starving stray puppy, or a dumb female advice columnist. Pity poor, stupid Samantha…
“Does it look like I like it? I hate it. It will ruin us!”
Ruin seemed a bit extreme, given that the Women’s House Magazine circulation numbers were in the low thousands and couldn’t get much lower before hitting nonexistent.
“They why did you approve it for publication?” Sam asked.
