Dear Digby Read Free

entitled “Why I Stay Single”—I think that was the name of it! I was very impressed by the author’s viewpoints on the subject of why she never married and why she never wished to marry. I would like very much to share with you my own reasons for remaining single and for insisting on my own spouse-free space.
    Mine, as everyone will admit, is a fascinating story, and I would be delighted to accept monetary renumeration for it. If, on the other hand, you don’t want to print my story—I’ll give it to you as a gift. By all means, retain it for purposes of educating other women to be as liberated as I am.
    What is marriage? I have no idea!!! I also had no idea previously—because no one actually asked me to be his wife. Then, eventually, one or two did (against my will!).
    One of these suitors happened to be Donald Irifune, ex-bonsai salesman and an executive-in-training at Baskin-Robbins, who asked me to marry him once while serving me a Big Mocha with jujubes—but he lost a finger in the Osterizer roughly five seconds after speaking—so I assumed that the offer would not stand up in court.
    Then an old, very old man proposed to me in New York City: Ollie Mutzner. Ollie Mutzner was in a Special Geriatric Wing—sometimes in a wheelchair and occasionally on a respirator—but don’t let this fool you—he was a pistol!! Mr. Mutzner was a glittering bon vivant, a TV personality with his own cable access channel! What an M.C.!
    He personally trained and introduced many of the Socko Senior Tumblers, including the world-famous Mrs. Fanny Wallatuse, but that is another story. Mr. Mutzner proposed to me on fifteen different occasions, but being a foolish young thing, I was put off by certain of his physical characteristics, you know, like long nose hairs and the self-conscious manner in which he sang “Feelings.”
    Often I’ve regretted this youthful decision, but since Ollie Mutzner went into a coma not long after the last proposal (though I’ve heard he still does his show!), I think our life together might have been too explosive. We’re both Leos, which has to be faced.
    Not long after my brief fling with Ollie Mutzner, I met a lad who laid carpet for Christ—or so he said. His name was Ronnie Larsk and he was Born Again. I was not. I usually find that being born once is entirely sufficient for a person. So we did not get along well from the first, ideologically speaking, yet I was attracted to his evangelical fire (which sometimes I admit was plain indigestion—the man had terrific Gas) and though I’ve always been an agnostic with cosmopolitan tendencies myself, I respected his Fundamentalist chutzpah. He told me, quite movingly, about prayer meetings he attended where people demonstrated their piety by leaping in the air and calling and signaling for Jesus as if he were some divine headwaiter. He also spent time elaborating on the horrible fates of the Non-Saved, who would be crisped in hellfire like Pork Rinds. He also proposed, though in his eyes, I was in the Dark.
    Ronnie and I broke off one day when he was laying Astro Turf at my place of residence and began speaking in tongues. He caused tremendous upset among the other residents (who began answering him in tongues) and caused further dismay by farting a great deal during this episode—since, as I mentioned, he was a victim of Gas and he had just consumed a typical lunch in our cafeteria ( Cuchifritos and creamed corn). By the time the staff got the corridors cleared, he had locked himself in my room (with me), still farting and speaking in tongues. I found myself looking at Ron the way one does when the flame has died. It was becoming harder and harder to fit him into my life. So I struck him a few light karate blows * (about the face and chin, avoiding the gaseous abdomen), knocked him out, and opened the windows wide. It took hours to get Ronnie hauled away (in the meantime, I simply stowed him in a Hefty bag), but the staff wanted to resuscitate