All the world’s a stage. Make sure to check your props.

Of all the roles to play in life, Straight Man gets pretty low billing. If listed in movie credits, it would come somewhere between Woman Pushing Stroller and Person in Crowd #2.

Setting the stage for someone else to shine isn’t easy. But I’m good at it. Especially for my husband. I’m the Ed McMahon to his Johnny Carson. Except more sober.

Timing is crucial. Set-up is subtle. Contextual. Sometimes it’s all about the right prop.

Like when he lectured at a How To Run a Political Campaign seminar. During our kiss goodbye, I sneak a bag of multi-flavored jellybeans into his briefcase. Because I care. And when a political pollster compares sampling election data to grabbing a random handful of jellybeans, my husband simply pulls out his bag to win a roomful of laughter.

Please, a round of applause for my lovely assistant.

And after a late business meeting as he stands outside a bar with Very Rich, Successful Older Client and Snarky 20-Something Guy who, matchless and lighter-less, can’t light his own cigarette, my husband whips out my birthday gift to him – a pocket-sized fire starting kit. Pulling the metal striker across a magnesium rod, he creates a shower of sparks that bounce off the sidewalk.

Very Rich, Successful Older Client: “You have a fire starter kit? In your pocket?? That. Is. AWESOME!”

Now Even Snarkier 20-Something Guy: ”Yeah, well, you older guys just don’t understand our younger generation. Asking for a light is a great way to meet chicks.”

My Husband Who Used To Beat Chicks Off With A Club: “Yeah, well, my generation can make Fire.” 

Thank you, thank you. And don’t forget to tip your waitress.

“Idle Hands Are The Devil’s Workshop.” And other love stories.

This is the prize that came with my son’s Happy Meal at MacDonalds. My husband emailed a picture of it to me. A fair interpretation of my request to communicate better. Share more of our day.

At first, I wonder who coughed up the blood clots but then see my husband’s side because I promised I’d do that more. He sees Satan’s testicles. Well yes, I agree, feeling good about my compromise. If there is a Satan and if he is a man, these could definitely be his testicles.

I wonder how big these actually are. I wonder if they’ll fit in the special container I’ve assigned for crappy plastic toys because even though we’re running out of room and I ask that these toys stop coming home I’m told they are an integral part of Boys Lunch Out. Which makes me wonder why women are so good at finding space for little things. I wonder if it comes with having a womb. Then I wonder how I could be an American for so long but not know how to spell MacDonalds McDonald’s.

All those mom blogs and parenting magazines are right. Children fill the world with possibility. And wonder.

Well played at the Masters. Or well played by a master. Either works.

Golf is a love-hate thing. My husband loves it. I hate it. I think it comes from that one time I went golfing.

When it’s on television, the gently waving palm trees, the civil, visor-wearing spectators, the whispering announcers all just piss me off. But that doesn’t stop me from running to my husband as he yells, “Watch this shot! Watch how he hooks this ball!” Sports has great drama. Where grown men cry.

What I see is a man named Bubba Watson winning a golf tournament called the Masters. Evidently a big deal. During the commercial break, my husband, knowing my weakness for a good story, acquaints me with all the other hooks. Dramatic hooks. Everyone likes Bubba. He’s self-taught. Never won the Big Show. His wife just gave birth. Picture of mom and cherubic baby flashes on screen. Great stuff. Put his father on a deathbed and I’ll join the Bubba Fan Club. Spoke too soon. Bubba plays with a pink-handled club to commemorate his father who recently died of cancer. Well alright then. Sign me up.

A “golfing accident,” “a natural,” he’s never had a lesson or a coach. I love that. And he wins the coveted Green Jacket with something sports commentators are calling the most creative, spectacular shot in the history of the Masters, a thrilling finish involving something called Sudden Death. Hollywood couldn’t write a better ending. Chills. Literal chills crawl up my neck.

And as Bubba sinks the winning putt and hugs his caddy, his shoulders shake in a tearful, emotional release. A sucker for the shoulder shake, I’m now standing in my living room with tears streaming down my face, sobbing over a man about whom I’ve never heard winning a tournament about which I know nothing playing a game about which I care not.

My husband, smiling, turns up the volume. His work here is done.

Always … no wait. Never compete with the person you sleep with.

The worse thing for a relationship, besides a really attractive ex who’s also kind, funny, suddenly wealthy and your new next-door neighbor, is professional jealousy.

The corrosive nature of this type of jealousy is insidious, leaving nothing but a bitter taste in the mouth and a bile-like pile of eroded feelings and broken bonds on the floor. (If you want a disgusted read, just Google “bile-like.”)

I’m lucky. Or maybe I planned well. Either way, in my house, I stay out of politics and my political junkie husband can’t speak Chinese. Nor does he have any desire to produce children’s theater.

So we’re good.

Professional jealousy is to be directed appropriately. At colleagues. And friends. Not the person with whom you share a life and who sees you naked.

The Supreme Court has also weighed in on this. Well, kind of. It ruled that not forcing a spouse to testify against another was “regarded as so essential to the preservation of the marriage relationship as to outweigh the disadvantages to the administration of justice” (Wolfle v. United States, 291 U.S. 7, 54 S. Ct. 279, 78 L. Ed. 617 [1934]).

If the pursuit of justice takes a back seat to preserving a relationship and regular piece of ass then so should a job. The Highest Court has spoken.

Hey, Left Brain. Get out of my head. Or at least my kitchen.

Left Brains be warned. The day when Right Brains command the ship is at hand. When logical, mathophile (because we Right Brainers aren’tafraid to make words up), process-obsessed Lefties cede power to the creative dreamers. The “flighty” types. The artsy-fartsies.

Well, at least according to Right Brained Oprah and some guy she knows.

And actually that day was at hand. Back in 2009. Seems even Oprah Science needs updating. Like Pluto. Now more recent research indicates that you may actually need your rational Left Brain to access your Right Brain creativity.

Bummer.

I was relishing the opportunity to use sound, scientific data, maybe even a flowchart or pie graph, to counter my Uber Left Brain husband’s argument that I need to follow a recipe and measure ingredients when baking instead of relying on my convoluted and meandering process involving Koreans, Coors Light beer commercials, red-headed stepchildren and prison-era Martha Stewart.

Because where’s the fun in that.