One of the many advantages of growing older is that I seldom get invited to weddings. Most of my friends, colleagues, and acquaintances have either already married or abolished the idea as being hopeless, hazardous, or potentially fatal-especially to prospective partners.

Though I’m happily espoused to my own Mr. Right, I shudder at the sight of a wedding invitation the way I would quake over a letter from the IRS. Before I’ve fully opened the embossed envelope, arrhythmia sets in. I can feel my throat constrict to fiber-optic proportions and shoulders rise to meet my earlobes. Within seconds, I’m compelled to prayer: “Dear Lord, I sure hope you’ve guided these two lovers to register at Target.”

Weddings are expensive, not just for the bride’s parents but also for the guests. Being color-coded gala affairs, these events dictate specific attire. This means that, in all likelihood, the attendees will need to spring for new duds and maybe some odd shade of shoes to match. And if participants aren’t quick on the draw when choosing their gifts, they’d better be prepared to spend like their last name is Trump.

By the time I typically make my way to the department stores to examine the wedding registry list, there’s nothing left to buy but 12-piece settings of platinum flatware or Waterford Crystal table lamps. I wish all the presents would get opened at the reception so I could find out exactly who keeps beating me to the tea towels and Tupperware.

Frankly, most weddings are planned backwards, from the rehearsal dinner right down to the reception. Wouldn’t it be nice if the committed couple hosted an appreciation dinner for the folks who raised them, for the people who provided the duo with their earliest examples of what to look for (or avoid) in a romantic union?

I can’t believe more dads don’t protest the idea of paying for their daughters’ nuptials. Don’t these men realize that they’re sending the wrong message to their future sons-in-law? Starting the guy off with a $10,000+ subsidy is just flat encouraging the groom to expect more where that came from.

I have other complaints, too. If you think about it, most of those professional photos could be captured before, rather than after, the service. Forget all that hooey about hiding the bride before the ceremony. Such practices have never been about preventing bad luck. Somebody simply thought that by separating the wedding pair prior to their vows, there’d be greater opportunity for either one to make a last-minute escape.

After the band starts, the first dance is normally reserved for the wedding couple. However, that slow spin ought to be followed by a second one for those who previously clothed, fed, and successfully shuffled the bride and groom from their dole. These folks should proudly occupy the dance floor, salute each other with a collective “high-five,” and then perform a shimmy-shake to James Brown’s “I Feel Good.”

During the betrotheds’ departure well-wishers should skip all that rice-throwing and bubble-blowing. Newlyweds need to be showered with glitter to prolong the sparkle. Soon enough the clock will strike midnight, when fancy gowns and expensive suits turn into ordinary jeans and sweats, party music fades to the cries of needy children, and husbands and wives who once briefly resembled royalty better favor pumpkins.

Getting hitched is actually pretty darn easy. It’s the living together and having to like each other for so long that presents problems. Nevertheless, if you follow these simple rules, you’ll find that keeping the knot tied will be less of a challenge:

If you and your other half must ride in the same vehicle, consider blindfolding the non-driving partner to reduce conflict. Spouses who bark orders at their motoring mates cause hypertension, accidents, and sudden disappearances.

Agree in advance on important matters such as the division of chores, any financial investment decisions, and time dedicated to televised sports.

Don’t share a joint bank account if you have separate ideas about recordkeeping. For example: Your mate believes every check should be immediately recorded when written, but you think the best way to determine your bank balance is to ask a teller.

Recognize that it is less important who pays the bills than whose salary will be used to make the payments.

Never go to sleep mad; you could wake up homicidal.

Men, please understand that intimacy involves more than asking your partner to scratch your back.

Ladies, realize that guys are not clairvoyant. If you want more touch, you’ll have to explain that you’d like your hubby to provide this after he’s put down the remote.

Give each other at least one compliment each day. My husband likes to tell me, “You spend more money than anyone I know,” and I enjoy pointing out, “You’re the most unobservant man I’ve ever met.”

Accept flatulence as a sign of relationship comfort. No longer concerned with putting on airs, contented spouses are prone to expel some now and again.

Spend equal time visiting with each partner’s family–unless one set of parents is particularly rich and generous, in which case you will want to invite them to accompany you on all your vacations.

Invest in a set of cordless, wireless TV headphones. Love means never having to say, “Will you turn that thing down!” which, by the way, is not a question.

Resist the urge to criticize each others’ habits unless these annoyances are, a.) harmful, b.) illegal, or c.) insane. For instance, if your mate squeezes the last dollop of toothpaste from the tube, it’s no big deal. But if he or she licks the final drop of goo from the cap and then swallows it–the toothpaste, but especially if the cap goes too–it’s time to speak out.

Refrain from using certain phrases that can trigger arguments. To be safe, consider eliminating from your vocabulary the word “savings.”

Respect each others’ privacy in the privy. In other words, don’t solicit a morning “poo” report like you’re checking the day’s weather forecast. And never, ever yell from the bathroom, “Hon, you gotta come see this!”

The mystery of what keeps two people together is sometimes hard to crack. A great deal of trial and error went in to devising these rules, so I figured I needed to pass them along. It’s the least I could do to promote nuptial bliss.

Labor Day is a time when many people think of vacations, picnics, parties, and family cookouts. But for me, the holiday evokes visions of matrimony.

My husband and I decided to marry on a significant date, one that might remind us of the type commitment we were making. Having both been previously divorced, we understood that marriage is more than just sharing the same bed, meals, and expenses. It means also divvying up closet space and learning how to considerately use the same toilet. That’s why we got hitched on Labor Day.

In hindsight, this holiday might not have been the best choice for our ceremony.

Metaphorically speaking, it doesn’t bode well that this date falls smack dab in the middle of hurricane season. And there’s something disconcerting about being wed when our state’s game department has just declared open season on the symbol of peace.

However, if we should ever forget our anniversary, it’s reassuring to know we’ll be reminded by the gunfire.

Perhaps a better time for a wedding would have been Halloween. After all, weren’t we both wearing disguises? I thought he was a guy with superb manners and active listening skills. He’d been fooled into thinking I was a gal who’d always remain thin and employed. Talk about being tricked!

But we’ll always have the illusions.

My partner, Jim, and I married inside a home that we’d spent the past 30 days remodeling. I kind of figured it like this. If two people can survive living with Cheech and Chong for contractors, being lost for entire days inside a home improvement store, and groping their way through clouds of Sheetrock dust, then they can likely weather in-laws, parenting, and shared closets.

I hadn’t counted on how important it was that one of us be proficient at mundane chores like sorting and filing. By the time I’d realized what happens when neither spouse is willing to perform unpleasant tasks, it was too late. We had to call in a recovery crew to help us find our tax records. Then we had to send in a search team to locate the recovery crew.

Among other marital surprises, I was shocked by how frequently that nasty “B” word surfaced. Every time my guy was angry he seemed to use it. That offensive noun kept rolling off his tongue. I hated it when he used the term “budget.”

I’d managed to live for 35 years without that financial tool, so I saw little need to develop one now. Budgets only got in the way of my spending habits.

“Did we have that in our budget?” Jim would often ask.

“I don’t know about yours,” I’d reply, “but I just put it in mine.”

Suffice it to say, philosophically, we differed.

Despite the hurdles we’ve encountered, we’ve been together now for nearly two decades, and neither of us has managed to change anything about the other. He’s still averse to closing doors, relinquishing his recliner, and throwing away papers (even junk mail and flyers removed from the front door), and I continue to ignore housework, filing, and bank balances. I guess you could say we’ve compromised by agreeing to remain mutually annoyed.

Maybe we should have been wed on Thanksgiving.

While traveling on a book tour, Jim and I stopped to eat at one of our favorite Mexican restaurants: El Chaparral in Boerne, Texas. This began what we now simply refer to as “Bean-o-rama.”

I’d forgotten that El Chaparral serves a small bowl of bean soup with each of its meals. Hubby and I had both ordered platters that further included refried black beans. By the time we returned to our hotel room, we were loaded with more than margaritas; we were packing major intestinal power.

As is our normal routine, we each planned to read before falling asleep. Curled up in bed together, Jim cracked open The Secret, a book about the power of positive thinking, while I entertained myself with a new novel. But only a chapter or two into our respective reading materials, our silence was punctuated with the interruption of familiar sounds–namely, flatulence.

Now, these were not the normal rooty-toot-toot kind of slips that occur during a momentary loss of manners. No. More like, full-scale, dirty-bomb, bring-in-the-hazmat-team-type emissions. It was a fart-fest of epic proportion.

Neither of us could seemingly control our gas or the associated laughter. The downside to this was that the more we cackled, the more we were forced to deeply inhale and the less we were able to maintain internal pressures.

After a fit of snorts and howls, Jim put down his metaphysical book and suddenly grew quiet.

“What?” I asked, fearing he’d suffered a stomach rupture.

“I’m practicing,” he said real serious-like.

Probably he meant he was trying to use mind over physics. Maybe he thought he could hold his breath to rid himself of bloat, much the same way you supposedly can cure hiccups.

“Practicing what?” I pressed.

“My affirmations,” he quipped. And then he began chanting, “My farts smell like Glade air freshener. My farts smell like Glade air freshener. My farts smell like …”

“Well, it’s not working,” I snapped. “Not unless Glade makes a scent called ‘Pinto Mist.'”

Now we were howling to the accompaniment of a full symphony of body sounds. If anyone had called room service, the poor delivery person would have likely keeled over before stepping 2 feet inside our doorway.

I looked into my man’s eyes and, holding my nose, said, “You’ve got to be specific when you use thought to materialize what you want.”

“You mean I need to state what scent instead of just saying ‘air freshener’?” he asked. Right then, another foul-smeller cut loose, and he all but burst from his legume-induced hilarity.

“No,” I replied, clutching my sides to keep from exploding. “I just realized that I should have been more careful when I asked to find my soul mate.” I doubled over, now fully in stitches.

“What do you mean by that!”

Between hysterical fits of stop and starts, I managed to finally utter, “This wasn’t what I’d had in mind when I asked for a man who’d take my breath away!”

Right then, we were both done in.

Sometimes romance is just in the air.

The four most terrifying words in the English language could be, “It’s in the garage.” Every time my spouse says this, I suffer chills, tremors, and potentially dangerous thoughts, such as, “Then neither of us will ever again find it, so I’ll just purchase new lawn furniture.”

Often hubby will look at me and say, “The next warm weekend that we’re free, we need to tackle this garage.” These declarations, though, aren’t as fear-provoking as you might assume-because I know he’ll never follow through on this threat.

My man is no more inclined to clean and organize the garage than I’m prone to rearrange our walk-in-if-you-dare pantry. You see, we share the theory that, when needed, important items will rise to the surface. And for anything that doesn’t, there’s always American Express.

Aside from the obvious risks of financial as well as personal injury, there are drawbacks to being this disorganized. For instance, I have to be careful when opening the automatic garage door. It’s one thing to live this way, yet another to let neighbors witness it.

Generally, I whip inside the garage and, while the vehicle continues edging forward, depress the button to close the metal curtain behind me. This action requires precision timing. If I don’t calculate my entry just right, then the car doesn’t line up like it should. But I’ve yet to run over anything of significant value.

I don’t know how this storage area ever became so out of control. Our three-car garage barely houses one lawn mower.

In one corner we have a 4-foot-by-6-foot stack of bricks that the builders were kind enough to leave behind. I’m guessing they wanted us to have these extra materials in case an entire wall should ever collapse. Frankly, this made me a little skeptical about their building quality. However, I stopped worrying too much about the masonry after I learned that the crew also provided us with four cases of floor tiles and 27 leftover paint cans. For the record, I’d like to state that there’s a fine line between thoughtfulness and laziness.

To these construction remains we’ve added a few offbeat collections of our own: empty computer cartons, three pairs of poison ivy-laced shoes, 14 tackle boxes (and we don’t even fish), tiki torches that someone gave me so he could get them out of his own garage, weed killers that, as far as I know, won’t work from the shelf where they’ve been stored for three summers, a hula hoop, a walking cane, the chainsaw that remains a risk to our health insurance provider, unusual colored rocks obtained from places I can’t remember, and a turkey fryer that’s been fired up only once-thanks to a nasty wind and grease incident.

Adding to this enclosure’s ambiance are the potted plants that I’ve sheltered inside the garage during the winter. Now we have enough spiders residing out there to cast a film sequel to Arachnophobia. The last time I looked, the place had evolved into its own ecosystem.

For many, the problem with confronting a task of this magnitude is that they don’t know where to begin. I, on the other hand, can identify the starting point. What I can’t locate is the required energy.

The first step to cleaning out a garage is to simply pull out everything and set the contents on the driveway. Unfortunately, most communities now prohibit the second step. Therefore, I’m unsure what to suggest because it’s unwise to violate burn bans.

So it looks like my garage may remain untouched for yet another season. But that’s okay. It’s never a good idea to tamper with an ecosystem.

Every spring, I stare at the heap of lawn furniture in my backyard and wish I could make it disappear. I want to ditch the sun-bleached cushions and dirt-encrusted chairs, the cracked table top and mismatched umbrella, and buy a new patio ensemble. And each year, I come to the same conclusion: It doesn’t matter what I purchase because, by next season, it’ll look just like the set I have now.

I bet you have experienced similar frustrations. Here are a few tips to help you in your quest for the perfect outdoor furniture:

1.  You MUST buy your patio set before May to obtain the best selection. After that, the mosquitoes arrive to remind people why it’s hazardous to be outdoors. This, naturally, causes the stores to quit stocking inventory.

2.  When shopping, if a salesperson greets you holding a credit application (and especially if they mention an “EZ payment plan”) then you’ll want to look elsewhere for bargains.

3.  Chair cushions are comfortable not only for humans but also nesting spiders, crumb-seeking ants, and leaf-born mold. Squirrels sometimes tear out and use cushion stuffing to insulate their nests. This proves these critters are intelligent enough to read labels containing words like “water resistant.”

4.  Tables come in two basic forms: the glass-top kind that’s guaranteed to shatter, and the solid or wrought iron type that, if lifted, will give a healthy man a hernia. Pick your poison.

5.  If you don’t buy an umbrella, your guests will end up plugging the hole in the center of your patio table with an empty, upside-down beer bottle.

6.  Unless you enjoy hoisting heavy metal chairs for sport, consider chaise lounges equipped with wheels. This provides the extra advantage of allowing you to use a chair, when needed, as a substitute wheelbarrow.

7.  Invest in vinyl outdoor furniture covers. They won’t keep your chairs clean, but they’ll impress the heck out of your neighbors.

8.  Color is important. White stays the coolest. Brown shows the least dirt. Chartreuse tells everyone that you have no class.

9.  Don’t waste your money on a bistro set. Everyone knows “bistro” is French for “overpriced and undersized.”

10. Wood picnic tables attract wasps, aphids, and guests with small children. Sure, you can save a little money if you buy one. But is it really worth it?

Now, go take a gander at what’s already sitting in your back yard. Looks pretty good, doesn’t it?

Whenever I’m restless and bored, I perform unnatural acts-like organizing closets. Generally, I get these urges once or twice a decade. A weird compulsion attracts me to the black hole that exists next to my master bathroom. I say “black hole” because entire ensembles have disappeared there. My daughter denies having ever borrowed any of my clothing, so I presume the heavy mass of coats, purses, shoes, and auto parts has simply folded in upon itself like a dense star.

Finally, I broke down and took an inventory of this closet. I discovered three boxes of items lost since 2002, a pair of hiking boots I purchased for a 1999 trip, and a mother-of-the-bride dress from a wedding that was cancelled the same year. All this before I’d made it past the bird clock, still in its original packaging, and an auto steering wheel. It was time to regain control of this space.

A quick study of Feng Shui, the Chinese art of placement, revealed how important it is for doors to swing freely open. Nothing should be stored behind a closet door, according to Feng Shui beliefs. Furthermore, nothing should be placed above the entrance because such practice produces feelings of depression and anxiety. Already I was experiencing those effects from simply looking past the door.

Feng Shui theory holds that closet clutter represents hidden problems impeding our progress in life, work, and relationships. Judging from the looks of my cache, I’ve been hampered by a disregard for time (bird clock), shortage of energy (hiking boots), and lack of a suitable vehicle (steering wheel) to achieve my goals.

I drew a deep breath, closed my eyes, and attempted to summon my chi.

Spaces that are completely full can block the flow of chi (vital energy), according to my Feng Shui guidelines. No wonder I’d been feeling lethargic lately. My walk-in closet had become a fashion freak house. I own more garment sizes than Kirstie Alley.

Avoid holding on to clothes until you’ve lost that 20 pounds, advised another article. What we let go of might benefit those in need, the writer suggested.

Examining my faded Dallas Cowboys Super Bowl shirt from 1996, I wondered who would want it.

The instructions I read stated that if I hadn’t worn an item in the last two years, I’d probably never wear it again. Ha! If I haven’t worn an article of clothing in the last two years, then it has likely been sitting in my laundry pile.

One expert suggested that I “avoid mixing my ‘play’ shirts with ‘dress’ blouses.” But I couldn’t see the point. After I did my wash, the tops would just get rearranged. Before I knew it, my good blouses would go right back to hanging out with some shirt from the wrong side of the rack.

To feel better, I peeked inside my husband’s closet. However, I didn’t walk into it for fear of radiation poisoning. His scuba gear, 14 duffle bags, a Dracula costume, three shoeshine kits, and enough baseball caps to outfit the entire American League threatened to cave in on me. Appropriately, a fire extinguisher leaned against one wall.

“A full bedroom closet can block your ability to attract a new relationship,” my Feng Shui instructions warned.

I shut the door to my man’s private space and smirked. From the looks of it, I had extra marriage insurance. So that’s one closet I won’t be touching.

Shopping for shoes has long been considered a woman’s favorite pastime-right after hunting for men. In my case, the reason for this is simple. My feet are the only part of my anatomy that remains the same size despite how many French fries I’ve eaten. I can always find footwear that fits.

However, I’ve been careless about my shoe purchases. Not once have I stopped to contemplate what’s in a style name. While my heels are well-suited to my wardrobe, they could be entirely wrong for my personality. And (gasp) what possibly could be worse than unknowingly wearing sandals called “Sweet Thing”?

Men, you too are at risk. Apparently, the tendency to identify footwear by alpha rather than numeric labels has infiltrated every department level. Consequently, women’s, men’s, teens’ and even toddlers’ shoes have been personified. It’s no longer just a loafer you’re looking for. It’s a leathery likeness that’s been cleverly named to match your individual taste.

Scanning recent sales brochures, I found a pair of men’s sneakers titled “Rookie.” Why would anyone want to be thought of as a beginner? Clearly, the better choice would be “Trouper” or maybe “Trammel,” good, solid-sounding monikers.

“Jillian” seems to be a popular type of ladies’ flats. I suppose Jillian is a likeable gal, but I’d have to seriously question the wedge heels whose namesake was “Drama.”

OshKosh makes a version of toddler boys’ sandals called “Gulfwind.” When my sons were young, they wore Buster Brown shoes. I don’t recall the styles, but one should have been named “Breakwind.” Come to think of it, that title might be appropriate for a few men I know, too!

I wanted to find out how shoe style names were determined, me being a professional journalist and all, so I contacted Nine West, a shoe company, to find out. In an e-mail message I asked, “Do you have staff who sit around in a room and stare at a sandal and then unanimously decide that the shoe should be called ‘Jester’ or ‘Daffodil?'”

I followed up my online communication with a voicemail message. Could there be both a 2005 “Odele” and a 2007 “Odele” for mature feet, I wondered. For all I knew, maybe the shoe-naming process was similar to designating hurricanes.

No corporate representatives responded to my inquiries. Probably the marketing folks were too busy trying to decide whether a sneaker had a sensible sole or expressive eyes.

Nevertheless, I decided to read the style names on a few of my husband’s purchases to see what I might learn. In his closet I found a couple of shoeboxes, one of which said “Columbus.” Looks like I’ve got an explorer on my hands, which is fine as long as he doesn’t take his discovery urges too far. The next box read “Chocolat,” which accurately describes his greatest addiction. And the last container was labeled “Air Moto Max,” the suitability of which I believe I’ve already covered (see “Breakwind”).

Apparently, without even knowing it, my guy had purchased shoes that correctly revealed something about his nature.

In my own closet I uncovered a pair of boots named “Necessity” and some sandals called “Bartlett,” which, as everyone knows, is a type of pear. I wouldn’t make it through a winter without those boots, and I’m unquestionably pear-shaped, so either there was some kind of subliminal message at work or the universe has some perfectly weird laws of attraction.

The next carton I pulled from the shelf contained a label that read simply “Ellen.” Does this mean I’ll one day have my own TV show?