Trouble in Marital Paradise

There’s trouble in marital paradise. Handsome Hubby, the man with a roving eye, has got yet another new honey. He’s spending all his free time with her, and I worry his work is suffering too.

All HH’s friends think she’s hot too. They’re also spending time with her, using and abusing her. It’s disgusting.

She’s big. That much I know. This bulk babe must weigh 500 pounds.  And I’m not engaging in weightism. She is, honest to God, huge — like a whale!

The Trouble in Marital Paradise is …

Have you guessed yet? HH’s new honey is a pool table. A custom-built one at that. He helped design “her,” picking out her custom fabric color — electric blue, her special dark glistening come hither wood veneer, and Mother of Pearl and Ebony rail sight markings.

This behemoth billiards babe was installed last Thursday in a specially dedicated room with a sleek stainless steel overhead light and special pool table chairs — think bar stools but with drink holders and notches indented on one side to rest a pool cue. Yes, at age 72, HH has a man cave. Rack ‘em up, boys. It’s party time!

HH is so carried away with the whole man cave experience that he has bought a second TV to hang on the wall! Now, I understand many people have more than one TV, but we never have — even when I was a TV news reporter and there was arguably some benefit in being able to view more than one newscast at a time.

All in for the Man Cave

HH also went to the liquor store and stocked up on beer and liquor for the man cave bar. Now I also understand people have bars and stock them up with booze, but HH doesn’t drink. He has Restless Leg Syndrome and alcohol disturbs his already disrupted sleep. But, there’s beer aplenty for his buddies and ginger ale for him.

Oh, yes, that hussy pool table is definitely bringing out the bad boy in my sweet boy.

Meanwhile, I have only one word to say for all this party and pool time action: Ironic!

You see, I was the one who brought pool into HH’s life. Well, me and my father. Big Julie, as my father was known, was a truly great pool player. How he came to be a pool shark is a digression, but it’s a quick, wonderful anecdote that I can’t resist sharing.

For six months in sixth grade — this was in 1924, Big Julie, then Little Julie, played hookey from school. In the morning, he went to the Bronx Zoo. Afternoons, he hung out in a pool hall, developing those killer skills.

At some point, the school’s truant officer came knocking at his parents’ door. My grandfather gave him quite a beating and the next day, my father limped off to school, where — thanks to a photographic memory — he quickly caught up on all the work he missed. (But that’s another story!)

The Makings of a New Hustler

When I introduced HH to the game, little did I know I was playing with fire. Back then, it was all about flirting, greasy hamburgers, equally greasy fries, and milkshakes at a dive called the Cue and Cushion in Reno, NV.

As for the game itself, thanks to Big Julie’s tutelage, I was the better player. I was the hot young pool hustler, schooling HH (formerly known as the BATT — Boyfriend at The Time) as to the ins and outs of the game.

Then, after love, came marriage, two baby carriages, lots of work, and exhaustion. Not much time for pool. We played occasionally, but not as often as we would have liked.

Space for a pool table in our home was never an option — what with all the kids’ toys and practical things, like a spare bedroom for company.

But HH never lost that glimmer in his eye for the game. Occasionally on our rare nights out, we’d play pool at a local pool hall, but in between work, scheduling babysitters, and yawns, it wasn’t the same.

HH’s Dreams of Being a Pool Hustler

We dreamed of owning a pool table, and even looked at dining room table/pool table combos, but it was a pricy unaffordable option. Then, when we planned this move to Reno, HH vowed our new house would finally have a room for “his” pool table.  And sure enough, it does.

But since the pool table’s arrival, my marital life has taken a turn for the worst.

Whenever I look for my once ever-loving husband, I find him crouched low over his new honey, whispering sweet nothings, perfecting his shot, or gently — ever so gently — cleaning/stroking her plush velvet surface with a special little brush.

And I confess, this little brushing/stroking deal is what really gets my goat. When was the last time he brushed my hair?  More importantly, when was the last time he picked up a dust rag?

And this isn’t the first time HH’s attention has strayed. Just last year I had to vie for HH’s affection when he purchased that danged Mustang Mach-E, a souped-up all-electric car! He spent all his time cruising around town with that hot little energy-efficient number.

True Life Confession

But for all my complaining, I must admit it is a delight to see my work-a-holic, never-takes-a-day-off husband take a break from his labors and actually RELAX!

Of course, HH takes his pool playing — like everything else he does — extremely seriously. He’s already acquired a library full of books on “how to” perfect your pool game. On airplanes, he plays video pool games. And I suspect the real reason he acquired that second TV is to watch YouTube channels to learn more tricks of the pool game trade.

Two to Tango … AND Play Pool

So, now I worry. I have a reputation to uphold. I used to be the better player. Clearly, I need to start practicing. HH has a multi-day business trip coming up, so a little surreptitiously pool play is in order.

Yes, two can play this two-timing game! I certainly don’t want to disgrace myself, womankind, and most of all, Big Julie, who’s now up in that Eternal Pool Hall in the Sky, making his own trick shots with the best of them, chomping on a big fat cigar, and reciting poetry to my mother.

I can hear my father now as he looks now at us, “See how well they’re doing. What a good marriage they’ve got. I always liked him best of all the boys she brought around. And he’s turned out to be a pretty decent pool player too. I did kind of worried about that.”

🎱 🎱 🎱

Photo credit: This week’s image is from The Hustler, the 1961 movie starring Jackie Gleason and Paul Newman.