This is annoying. An article on “Brokelyn” about “How to Survive as a SAHG (Stay-at-Home-Girlfriend.” The author lost her job shortly after moving in with her boyfriend, and her article — illustrated with a woman in a French maid outfit vacuuming while daydreaming about martinis — is a retro riff on the joys of staying home cleaning and cooking for one’s man.

The annoying bit is that the article is actually really good advice for a person who is in the difficult situation of being unemployed and living with someone who isn’t. It’s advice men and women, straights and gays, could use. Or, for that matter, people who have had to move back in with their parents. (Except for the part about having lots of sex with the person who’s putting a roof over your head.) The author suggests getting up when the employed person does, which keeps you on a regular schedule and reduces the other person’s resentment; take good care of yourself physically; get out of the house at least once a day; make a contribution such as cleaning the house or cooking; make physical pleasure a priority in your relationship.

This is great advice. It’s hard to be provided for. It’s hard to be the provider. Straight up, it’s hard for relationships between adults to be unequal.

So why couch this good advice in such “oooh I’m so daring by being a 50s housewife” language?

Is it because a straightforward article on how to cope with unemployment and the relationship strains it inevitably produces just isn’t sexy enough? Not edgy?

I mean, French maids’ outfits and martinis. Oooh la la.

I don’t even think it’s sexism that’s underlying this. Sure, sexism gives this article its shape. But I think, deep down, it’s pure economic terror. Unemployment is fun if you can say breezily, “The thing is, even though I?ve gotten the whole domestic thing down to a science, the idea of being an actual housewife is not at all appealing. I still fully intend to have a career of my own. Until I land that new job, I?m doing the best job I can as a stay-at-home girlfriend.”

But what if it’s not a fun, erotic power game any more?

What if you never find another job?

If we can pretend it’s all a game, it will go away. Playing house until the next $70K gig lands in our lap.

When it gets real — when your boyfriend wakes up in the night wondering if he still loves you, or merely feels obligated to support you until you get back on your feet; when your contribution isn’t fixing martinis and meals from the Whole Foods deli section for your hot boo, but cleaning out your mother’s sewing room; when the friends who used to so happily give you manicures start to smell that whiff of desperation that comes out of your pores — that’s not so very much fun.

The hell with the sexism. I started writing this post because that part made me angry. The more I think about it, the more I think the article’s worst sin is in the way it whistles past the cemetery.

For some people, unemployment means something other than a chance to engage in regressive fantasies.

It’s not that well written, but I have to share this story with you: a couple who met at a camp to turn gay people straight managed to throw off the abuse and self-hatred and find love together:

Mention the Janssons to Dawson Taylor, the pastor who married them at Cathedral of Hope, and he just laughs.

He said he’s never met two people who are so perfect for each other and so in love.

And despite having gone through reparative therapy camp, Larry said, “I want everyone to know we’re good with God.”

I am sure these horrific camps give rise to more suicides than happy marriages, but thank God that some people are strong enough to survive. And strong enough to forgive. And strong enough to still love. And tasteful enough to have a truly rockin’ wedding cake.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

UPDATE: Commenter Anita wrote, “I?m sure you didn?t mean it that way, but categorizing suicide vs. survival/forgiveness as a matter of weak vs. strong is really questionable. Especially when we?re discussing matters of institutionalized abuse.” Anita, you are absolutely right, and my wording was thoughtless. I should have said “lucky.” In no way would I condemn anyone who is psychologically and physically abuse to the point that suicide seems the only way out. Thanks for calling me out on that, Anita!

Mr. Improbable was out of town this week, so as usual I took the opportunity to catch up with some of my girlfriends. Friday night, two friends from synagogue came over for pizza and vodka whipped cream and general silliness. We made it a slumber party because I didn’t want them driving home, and they had a class near my neighborhood in the morning anyway.

Erika and Molly are a lesbian couple who have been married for five years or so. And here’s the thing: Milo figured that out. He immediately realized that these were not two separate people, these were a PACK. If one of them told him to do something he didn’t want to do, he’d look at the other to see if she really meant it. He spent most of his time sitting in between them, and was happiest when he could be touching both of them at the same time. If they weren’t close enough to do that, he’d at least manage to be able to watch them both at the same time.

That’s not how he acts with any two people, even good friends. That’s how he acts with me and Mr. Improbable. That’s how he acts with a pack.

God knows I am not one to sentimentalize dogs or their innocence or insight or capacity for teaching moral lessons. I find that an insult to both philosophy and dogs. But Milo has no politics. He has no ideology. He only knows what his senses tell him, and what they told him is that my friends Molly and Erika are one.

My dog can recognize gay marriage. I hope the rest of the world catches up with him soon.

Milo is a good liberal who respects all treat-bearing people equally and recognizes nontraditional families. He ain’t no damn hippie, though. When Erika pulled out a guitar and started singing folk songs to him, he totally flipped a nutty. Good dog.

Today is National Coming Out Day, not to be confused with Columbus, or “National Coming Over” Day.

I’ve generally made it clear that Miss Conduct is a gay ally. But I haven’t ever come straight out and said it. So today, I am coming out as an unapologetic ally. I am in favor of gay rights and gay marriage and the full equality of gay folk everywhere. And I’m sorry if, at any point, I’ve let my commitment to diversity and politeness ever mask the strength of that conviction.

Because I think it has. I’ve tried to respect other people’s discomfort around gay rights. But I can’t bring myself to get very concerned about that these days. Here’s the bottom line: I can’t respect any beliefs other than that of the full dignity and worth of gay people and their relationships. If you don’t believe in that, I can still respect your character, your sense of humor, your honesty, your generosity, whatever. But I am finished with trying to pretend as though the belief that homosexuality is wrong, or that gay people shouldn’t have full legal rights, is a different but reasonable perspective. It isn’t.

If you believe homosexuality is wrong, or are opposed to gay marriage,

… then you are the ones who have to explain the subtle difference between “not hating someone” and denying them their civil rights.

You are the ones who have to explain why violence bothers you less than the expressions of love and individuality that “provoke” it.

You are the ones who have to explain how giving one group of people their civil rights can hurt another group.

You are the ones who have to explain why your personal religion or morality should be the law, and mine should not.

You are the ones who have to explain what, exactly, gay people are supposed to do under your system. Lie about “roommates”? Be celibate for life? Make a genuine mockery of marriage by marrying a beard — or an unsuspecting and in-love straight person?

It is the person who is making the extraordinary claim who needs to produce extraordinary evidence. I’m not going to pretend that the claim of gay equality is the extraordinary one anymore. Those who deny it are the ones who are making the extraordinary claims, not me. They are the ones who have to explain themselves.

A little while ago, I posted the following update on Facebook:

Robin Abrahams got hit on–not harassed, *hit on* quite respectably–by a very cute, YOUNG construction worker on a walk today. Does the ego good!

(I then, because I am a big word nerd, pointed out in comments that I did not mean “respectfully,” I meant “respectably,” as in “Damn good try, young man!”)

Anyway, a single male friend of mine asked, “So, what did he do?” I suspect my friend may have wanted to know for more than academic reasons. So I will tell him here, and all you other men who might be wondering, too, what he did.

I was walking down the street. The young man was on break, leaning against a fence, smoking a cigarette, appreciating the scenery. When I became part of that scenery, he gave me a look that let me know the addition was welcome. Not a leer, not a smirk, simply a lingering gaze that let me know he knew I was there, and didn’t care if I knew he was, either. I thought he was a pretty good addition to the landscape, myself, so I gave him an appreciative look back.

As I approached, he said “Hello.”

I replied, “Hi there.”

He said, “How’s your day going?”

I said, “It’s going fine.”

That was it. Of course, the sidelong glances and tone of voices made it clear that what we were really saying was:

“Looking good.”

“Looking good yourself.”

“I’m free if you want to chat.”

“I’m married, but you’re tempting.”

But that was it. No clever pickup lines, no comments about each others’ appearance, no sense on the part of the young man that he felt entitled to my time and attention. He was just enjoying the view — and enjoying being enjoyed, in turn — and opening a door to further conversation, if I were so inclined. And if I were single, I may indeed have been. At any rate, it certainly gave me a lift, and even though I kept on walking, I think the moment of flirtation might have put a bit of sparkle in his day, too. That’s how you know it isn’t harassment: we both felt better after our encounter.

Life is complex. Do I not always say that? But some things are simple. This is one of them. If you don’t have them at “Hello,” you never will.

My talk for Actors’ Shakespeare Project’s production of “Taming of the Shrew” last week was terrific fun! We’d seen the production the night before — I’ll review that, too — and it gave me an idea for a great opening.

ASP is staging the play in The Garage in Harvard Square, which they’ve done up to look like a divey bar circa early 1980s or so. It’s the first play I’ve ever seen that incorporates the senses of taste and smell — an actor passes around popcorn during intermission (warning everyone who takes some “You can’t sue us”) and Grumio, Petruchio’s servant, cooks sausages on an electric fry pan, filling the space with their savory aroma. Shakespeare in Smell-O-Vision! Only ASP, I’m telling you.

Anyway, the dive-bar setting, and the extremely violent staging of the play, got me thinking about this year’s Ig Nobel Peace Prize winner: a team of Swiss scientists who won “for determining — by experiment — whether it is better to be smashed over the head with a full bottle of beer or with an empty bottle.”

So before the talk, I made sure Mr. Improbable had a seat up in front, right where I would be talking. And I got a bottle of Sam Adams and a mug. And this, more or less, is what I said:

“‘Taming of the Shrew’ teaches us that a woman should always put her husband before herself, so before I begin my talk, I’d like to ask my husband, Marc Abrahams, to stand up and take a bow.” (He did) “Marc is known in my column and blogs as Mr. Improbable — for many reasons, the main one being that he publishes the Annals of Improbable Research and produces the Ig Nobel Prize ceremony.

“When we saw the play last night, it made me think of this year’s Ig Nobel Peace Prize winner” — which I then described as above. “Now, this is what might surprise you: you can actually do far more damage with an empty bottle of beer than a full one. An empty bottle is a better weapon. Counterintuitive, no? After all, a full bottle is heavier, by the weight of the beer.

“But here’s the thing. A full bottle of beer already has so much pressure inside it, from the thick, foaming, raging beer, that it takes much less external pressure to make it shatter. When you’ve emptied out all that beer” — and here I poured the beer out and served it to Marc with a dramatic “Milord,” and I must say he was an awfully good sport about basically being used as a prop — “you have a much more effective weapon.”

“Just like Kate, when she empties out all that rage, when she stops holding in all that pressure, becomes a much more strong and focused person. And a much more effective weapon, as her sister and the Widow can attest!

“And now I will stop being Mrs. Improbable” — turning to Marc — “and you can start being Mr. Conduct. Because as ‘Taming of the Shrew’ really teaches us, a happy marriage isn’t about one person being in charge, or about everything being equal all the time, either. It’s about knowing when to take the spotlight and when to give it up to your partner.”

It went over pretty doggone well, I must say. More on the play proper later, but in the meantime, here‘s a print interview I did for the ASP website.

Salon’s Cary Tennis answers a question from a woman that begins,

I’m still single at 32 and hate it. I absolutely want to find and fall in love with a man I can spend the rest of my life with. The problem is, I keep ruining things by sleeping with men too soon, often right away. And each time I make this mistake, I am left even more hopeless, feeling worthless, terrified and convinced that I’ll never find a man who wants more from me than sex …

and goes on to describe a typical situation:

But after our first real date, I never hear from him again. Because this is not my first rodeo, I slowly come to realize, AGAIN, that I’ve completely ruined any chance he and I ever had by sleeping with him right away. And it’s my fault; I ruined it and now I feel absolutely worthless. The whole thing crashes down and it’s MY FAULT. My fault for being spontaneous, for wanting to have fun, for being a fun girl. It’s MY FAULT because it’s my responsibility to say no, to know that a guy couldn’t possibly stop it and beyond that, has no reason to do so.

No, hon, it’s not your fault. You know why you’re 32 and single? It’s not because you have sex too soon. It’s because you haven’t met the right guy yet. It’s that simple, and that hard to accept.

If a man was going to fall in love with you, he will do so regardless of whether you sleep with him on the first date or not. I have known women who have postponed even kissing until their wedding night. I have known women who have slept with men on the first date. I have known women who have slept with men before the first date. I have known women who were single and pregnant with a baby they planned to give up for adoption when they met Mr. Right. I myself was having a herpes outbreak on my first date with Mr. Improbable. (It was a nice way to find out that he holds hands real good.)

When you find the right one, you’ve found the right one. If you’re asking, “What date is should be the booty date?” or “Is it okay to ask a guy out?” or “When should I tell her I have herpes?” … you’re asking the wrong question. Because if you’ve found the right person, these issues of timing don’t matter a whit. And if you haven’t, it doesn’t matter how perfect your timing is. They still won’t love you.

We really want to think that if we do all the right things, the universe will bring us the love we deserve. If we hold out on a guy physically just long enough to get him intrigued, but not so long that he’ll think we’re a tease, he’ll love us. If we come up with the perfect opening line, that hot babe at the bar will go home with us.

It doesn’t work like that. Another person is not merely an obstacle course to the physical and emotional intimacy you crave. They are an individual with their own desires, and hopes, and fears. I think when you’ve been single for a long time, it’s easy to forget that. (Oh, hell, I know when you’ve been single for a long time, it’s easy to forget that, because I’ve been there.) Finding love isn’t some kind of battle that can be won by superior tactics.

I remember, when I was single and unhappy, someone said to me: “You just have to find someone you want, who wants you.” I hated him for saying that. I wanted to think there was something I could do. Or stop doing. I wanted control.

But he was right.

And when you take in that lesson, you gain in freedom what you lose in false hope.