When I was a youngster working at a Chicago ad agency, I was the only woman in my group of writers and art directors. The account executive set up a luncheon with the client at a men’s club. This, of course, was a power play to force me out. The issue was resolved with much sound and fury; it’s a story for another day.

I bring it up now because, for the second time in my life, I find myself excluded from a men’s club. This one involves me very own friends and soul mate. Ya got trouble, my friend, right here, I say, trouble right here! (trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble…)

Here’s what I have discovered:

When a woman suffers an emotional blow, her woman friends rally around, offering solice when needed and silence when wanted. Her men friends rally around her hubby.

Oh, they have clucked their tongues and offered me “Shucks, ma’am, sure am sorry ’bout your predicament,” but they have also offered the Mister what every man in a nursing home needs: dirty pictures.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say porn. But the kind of stuff that they don’t share with me. For instance, this:

It is called The New Navy and was sent to the Mister by my trusted business associate. I found out about this due to a slip of the tongue on the part of the Mister.

Once the confession began, tales tumbled out like gumballs:

•  My other trusted business associate sent a movie of an apparently double jointed lady doing impressive gymnastics with a flag.
• A third associate’s joke ended with “O my God, I was riding Old Nell!”
• My brother-in-law, whom I believed would never, ever have impure thoughts, has emailed very impure thoughts, indeed.

What tickles me is that all these men are doing this autonomously. They don’t even know each other. They have independently come to the same conclusion. When a man can’t provide another man with alcohol, game tickets, tobacco, armaments or crack, what’s left? Boobs, that’s what!

So all in all, I’m pretty much charmed here on the back nine. Thanks, guys, for being guys.