Month: October 2025

I have been writing these articles since I was 42. Now at 61, I see the pattern clearly. When a woman starts talking about having a companion, she is often hinting that you should consider her for that role. Women speak in hints, and this is one of their favorites.
 
For most of my life, my female friends were married, had children with the same man, and had never been divorced. I believed they were devoted to their husbands and families. I made it a point to know their husbands personally.
 
Recently I have noticed that some of these same women, now my age, approach me when their husbands become sick or retire. They start by pushing the idea that I need a companion. Later I learn their husbands are either in the hospital or no longer working.
 
One woman even cried to me, “How can I travel to Europe to see my family if my husband retires? Does he only think about himself?”
 
The real meaning behind that is, “How dare he stop working after 40 years without asking me” or “How dare my provider stop providing for me.”
 
I am not anyone’s Prince Charming, but I have been single for 25 years and have made enough money to support a wife and family. To some women, that alone qualifies me as a potential provider.
 
But I will not be mom’s boyfriend. I will not be grandma’s boyfriend.

A female friend I had known for 21 years called out of the blue to have coffee. We had not seen each other since the pandemic. I was 60, she was 63, her husband was 72. We had worked together in various ways over the years. I had met her husband a few times. We even ran into each other in the Hamptons one summer. Her husband owned a shipping company. We got along fine.
 
She and I used to talk on the phone about news and movies. I was comfortable with her because she had been with her husband since she was 16.
 
We met at a bagel deli in Manhattan. We hugged, exchanged pleasantries, asked about each other’s families. She said everyone was fine.
 
After about 30 minutes she asked, “Why are you still single?”
 
I thought she knew, but I said it anyway. “I am not going through that again. Women hate men.”
 
She replied with the standard line, “You just picked the wrong women.”
 
I told her, “I picked the wrong women. My neighbors picked the wrong women. My family picked the wrong women. My friends, classmates, coworkers, all picked the wrong women. Everyone is picking the wrong women, but the women are never wrong for their actions. Besides, I do not have the money, knowledge, energy, patience, or time to make a woman happy.”
 
She snickered. “Don’t be silly. You need to open your mind. I heard you are doing well for yourself. It is not hard to make a woman happy.”
 
I snapped. “I will not provide for and protect another woman who has backstabbed all of her previous men, only to backstab me for doing the same. I will not be used again.”
 
She smiled. “I’m sure you will find someone you fall in love with. It’s just a matter of time.”
 
My anger grew. I told her, “I have loved many women and been betrayed every time. I want a woman to pick me because I am the right one. I want her to love me. I want her to reach into her pockets and buy me a car, a watch, and a dinner or two. What woman, with no history of loyalty or respect, should I devote my life and earnings to protect? All I am offered now is a position of servitude as mom’s boyfriend or grandma’s boyfriend. I will not provide for another man’s wife or raise another man’s child.”
 
She brushed it off. “That’s dumb. You’re paranoid. Not all women are out to get you. You need a loving woman beside you.”
 
I wondered why she was pushing so hard. I told her bluntly, “Let’s get off the subject. I don’t want to talk about it. If we keep talking about this, I will leave. I don’t want to offend you, but if you continue, I will have no choice.”
 
She got the message. We changed the subject for about 10 minutes. Then she checked her watch, said she had to go. I walked her to her building, gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and apologized for my tone.
 
Three weeks later, she called me crying. Her husband was in the hospital and might not make it. I tried to console her. She said he had pancreatic cancer and may not have long. Then she told me he had been admitted to the hospital about a month ago.
 
In case you missed it, here is the timeline: her husband went into the hospital. Three weeks later she met me, told me everyone was fine, then tried to sell me on getting a companion. One week later she called with the news.
 
She never realized what she had admitted. That was months ago. I am sure her husband has passed. She has not called me about it since. While he was in the hospital, she was hunting for her next provider. Maybe she found him.

Therapy is code for a dependency on others to think and analyze for her.
 
What most people do not understand is that women are dependent on others for almost everything they do. They consult psychics, therapists, astrologers, and their female friends, who often guide them to fail because they do not want their friends to rise above them in status.
 
The modern woman obeys and submits to astrologers, psychics, therapists, jealous girlfriends, lawyers, psychiatrists, and doctors who prescribe harmful mood-altering drugs. Yet she is combative toward the man who professes his love for her, using shaming tactics, insults, humiliation, guilt trips, nagging, and constant arguments.
 
In short, she obeys everyone who profits from her loss while spitting on the man who loves her.

My childhood friend married a widowed mother. Her first husband died while working as a maintenance worker on the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge in New York City. My friend vowed to provide for and protect her and her daughter.
 
They later had three more daughters. The apartment was too small, so he started working nights and weekends, seven days a week, to save for a down payment on a house. This went on for two years.
 
He finally bought a small home built in 1957. It was modest but bigger than the apartment. He promised to add a second floor so all four daughters could have their own rooms.
 
He worked as a bouncer on the side and sometimes drove a limousine. Many nights he slept in my living room because he was too exhausted to drive home. I often packed food for him since I was single and cooked in large portions.
 
He hired an architect and took an apprentice job as a carpenter to make the expansion happen. By September, the second floor was finished after years of planning. Halloween came and went. Thanksgiving was in the new house. Then came Christmas.
 
With little money left, he still bought a Christmas tree, decorations, and presents for the whole family. Just before New Year’s, the boiler broke. He told the family they would have to brave the cold with blankets and space heaters until they could fix it.
 
One day, he picked up the mail and accidentally opened his wife’s bank statement, thinking it was a credit card bill. The balance was $180,000. Shocked, he showed her. She snatched it from his hands and shouted, “That’s my money!”
 
When he asked where it came from, she said it was from her late husband’s insurance policy. He asked when she got it. She said while she was pregnant with their first child.
 
He asked when she was going to tell him. She kept repeating, “That’s my money.”
 
He reminded her he had worked two and three jobs, seven days a week, for years to buy the house. She snapped, “You wanted to work those jobs.”
 
He asked if she would have let the kids freeze without a boiler. She replied, “That’s your job, and that’s my money.”
 
He made her sign over the money. He repaired the boiler, completed the second floor, bought a new car, and opened four investment accounts for his daughters’ futures.

If you’re stupid enough to marry a broad (bird if you’re from the UK, Sheila if you’re an Aussie), remember this:
 
1. Prenup.
 
2. Postnup.
 
3. Amendments on every anniversary.
 
Lock it down in writing. Every year. Terms and conditions updated regularly. Love doesn’t hold up in court, contracts do.

Hetty Green, known as The Witch of Wall Street, is listed in the Guinness Book of World Records as the stingiest woman in history. Her net worth in today’s dollars was over $5.4 billion.
 
Despite her extreme wealth, she married a millionaire and lived on leftover cakes and broken biscuits from a nearby bakery.
 
She caused her own son to lose his leg because she wasted time looking for a free clinic instead of paying a hospital bill.
 
She died in 1916 at the age of 81 from a stroke while arguing with her maid over a pay raise.