You could fill entire football stadiums with all the things that I don't know. I don't know how to make paella. I don't know how to do algebra or iron pleats or ski. I don't know how to sing on key, accept a compliment, interact at a party consisting of more than eight people or kill a lobster...which brings us back to my paella issues.

But I do know a thing or two about men...

Okay, not two, but there is this one little thing about men that I do know with crystal clarity: I know what I like.

Needless to say, what I like, love and cherish above all others is my own man, Johannes Labusch. He was a friend for quite a while, and then 14 years ago this month we went to a museum together and I stood there looking at a Giacometti sculpture through his faded denim gray eyes, and he was so funny, so astute, so sexy, so unpretentious that somewhere between the cafe and the gift shop, I was a goner. And (despite the fact that a mere 20 minutes ago we had an unbelievably irritating phone conversation) I still am.

But what if something were to happen to Johannes? I mean, I realize that spending most of the year working in Switzerland isn't exactly on par with spending most of the year working in Iraq, but things happen.

Suppose he falls off an Alp or chokes on a chunk of chocolate? Do you have any idea how many human beings perish every single year in fondue-related accidents? Well, neither do I, but suffice it to say the statistics are probably off the charts. Anyway, forget Zurich: What if when Johannes is here in New York, he were to slip on one of the many, many wet towels he leaves lying all over the floor after his shower and then crash headfirst into the guitar he has such a hard time pulling himself away from even though I'm late for work and could really use some help getting our daughter dressed (did I mention that we had a big fight 20 minutes ago?), then who could I fall truly, madly, deeply in love with...after, you know, a suitable period of mourning. I've spent the last 20 minutes giving this matter considerable thought.

Men I could fall hard for...after, you know, a suitable period of mourning.

  • CEO/mensch Jim Sinegal came up with this utterly novel theory: If you hire good people and then treat them with respect, nice things happen. The nice thing is called Costco, a place where workers earn an average of $17 an hour and pay just nine percent of their health insurance costs, a place that sells everything from Dom Pérignon to diapers at bargain prices. In a world where CEOs of billion-dollar companies require salaries to match, Jim (as every employee calls him) takes home an annual salary of $350,000. I don't care if he's not a billionaire, Jim and I will live on love—and perhaps a 22-pound wheel of Jarlsberg cheese for the low, low price of $180. And when our days dwindle down to a precious few, we'll go online to the funeral department and get a terrific deal on matching, high-quality Costco caskets.


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