The Death Of Romance Occurs After Two Years, Six Months And 25 Days, Study Says.

The honeymoon period is officially over two years, six months and 25 days into wedlock, according to new research. This is the point in the average marriage where both partners take each other, and their relationship, completely for granted. After the second wedding anniversary couples are far more likely to scatter socks and pants around the house, leave the toilet seat up, hog the remote control and go without make-up.

Quick recap: In grand fashion we left the Bay bound for Lauderdale with a couple of stops planned in between to hang with family and see the “new” nephew Odin, who I’d not yet met. After that? BING, BAM, BOOM, south-bound like a freight train in an Allman Brothers tune! Woo-Woo… Charleston, SC. Board Jet in a fancy doggie day-care and then the jump off to Lauderdale. Then, I’d fly up and grab the truck and the Jet-Pack from his week of leisure and return him to the confines of our little “crate” house on the water. THAT was the plan. And if you have followed us for any length of time you know, plans simply don’t follow directions when it involves Chris and Mel. Toss in tropical storms, sitting at anchor for three days waiting for weather and now the illustrious water pump failure x 2 and here we sit in Charleston. The Romance (with a capital “R”) gone. Now I got to thinking about all this romance talk and I’ll tell you a few things from a mans perspective. Is that allowed any more?  A man giving his perspective?  Anyway… that quote about romance being done some two years into a marriage? Bah~ live on a boat and it’s last rights will be administered by the end of the first week! Here’s how it goes.

Man:  Begins to go feral after about a day. Stops shaving because he’s conserving water. Shower? What, are you kidding?  Conserving WATER! Wears the same tattered shorts and t-shirt that is now quite “fragrant” in the interest of… you guessed it… saving water. Basically, he becomes a homeless person with a college education and for the first time since he graduated, uses his knowledge of Hemmingway simply by looking like him.

Woman:  Begins to go feral after about 6 months of living with the barbaric man / subhuman she no longer recognizes.  She fights the good fight with moisturizers and conditioners but soon surrenders. She too refrains from shaving her legs. She stops washing her hair and constantly opts for the ubiquitous “pony-tail / head band” tennis player from the 80’s look.  Of course she’s “saving water” all-the-while uttering under her breath, “He looks like Grizzly Adams and smells like the dumpster behind CBGB’s and this is my only defense to keep him OFF. OF. ME.”

Now lets get to the delicate subject.  The Nut’s and Bolts shall we say. The Bathroom. Toilet. John. Head. We have one and it’s about the size of your linen closet. Stop reading and go look… if you have one. GO!

Welcome back. Anyway, I’ve mentioned before that we have to pump the toilet. There is no “flush” handle. Actually there is, it’s name is Chris DiCroce. Just as our windlass is named, Chris DiCroce. It’s close quarters indeed. If you’re shy, bashful or “sensitive” about your bathroom orchestration shall we say, DON’T move onto a boat with the opposite sex. You will be doomed to a life of misery and severe discomfort. Here’s my advice. Get it over with quick. Just do it. Stand on the commode (not possible but go with me on this) and shout out through your gray, scraggily beard and chronic halitosis… that mantra made famous from the most amazing man among men, “I AM WHAT I AM AND THAT’S ALL THAT I AM!”  Yes, I did just quote Popeye.

Isn’t it funny how living on a boat is synonymous with romance and yet SO not true. All those images of sweeping shots from a helicopter as a man stands at the wheel clad in a big, cushy sweater and sea boots, pipe in his mouth  as his woman adorns the bow in a long flowing dress like the hood ornament on a Rolls Royce – eh, nah… Here’s what really happens… tomorrow we’ll both be grease monkeys as we pull the old water-pump and replace it with what I hope is the right one that’s coming from San Diego. Then, I get to drive an hour to pick up the OTHER water pump and install it… Then and only then, will we try, and please let me emphasize the word “try” to leave Charleston. Hey, at least it’s not St. Augustine again…

Rage on my friends. Sorry for the lack of posts. We are simply trying to get there.