Stock Market Widow

Despite being an incredibly muscular stud-muffin, and completely flooded with appropriate levels of testosterone, my husband watches virtually NO sports on TV. This was a huge selling point while we were dating, as I'd heard of the "Football Widow" and was pretty much determined to avoid that fate by taking control of my destiny.

My rigorous screening process, however, missed another pervasive cultural vice, probably because in my early 20's I'd never dated anybody with more than $100 and a mo-ped to his name. I mean, how picky can you be? But it goes to show you really have to do your homework when you're shopping around for husband material. Because "compulsion" comes in many disguises.

David, you see, "plays" the stock market. Weekly, daily, hourly, during meals, and now with the advent of hand-held devices, even while swimming.

I affectionately refer to this obsession as his mistress, and hour-for-hour, he pays WAY more attention to her than to me. For example, I never see MY name lovingly doodled on the desk pad anymore. Not even really really small, in between the (illustrated!) epics dedicated to her. Sometimes I find her phone number in his pocket. And it's FIRST on speed-dial, if you can believe the nerve!

He's always buying her something, too!

I even have to share him on weekends and holidays, since there's this annoying sidekick to trading: reading about trading.

I've warmed up a bit to the Wall Street Journal, but it fails my 2 major criteria for newspapers: easy crossword puzzles, and Dilbert. We also get three or four thousand magazines a week, pertaining to finance, stocks, and computer trading. Which look very impressive when stacked vertically, but don't stay put when you try to stand on them to change a light bulb. I would imagine. I haven't been able to find any other use for them.

I've gotten so used to the drone of the business news in my house, it feel spooky at night without it. He keeps it going in multiple rooms, I guess in case one of the TVs spontaneously combusts during an important stock tip. Some of the anchors are so familiar, I NOTICE when they look like they're not feeling well. "Is Mark Sick?" I ask. "He looks pale…and, hey, isn't Maria Bartiromo's anniversary's coming up here pretty soon?"

Maybe we should send a card.

I suppose it's not as bad as football in some respects. After all, he doesn't have gaggles of friends over on the weekend, belching requests for domestic beer and more DIP for the chips. But, then football has the distinct advantage of being SEASONAL.

I guess I'll have to take solace in the supposition that, REALLY, how cute could someone named "Dow" or "NASDAQ" actually be?

Woof!