It isn’t the excessive drinking, which of course, is a given, always a given, with him, nor is it the salty language, which is fine – men are men, and though I am trying to rid myself of that sort of language as I get older, I don’t want to be to restrictive; if he wants to use that type of language, after I have spent 5 days cleaning the house, shopping different grocery stores for the finest ingredients, and finally cooking - that is certainly his prerogative. However, with the years there has been one crucial annual bifurcation in our marital sensibility that I feel I have been forced to temporarily tap back into line: The pussy joke.

At my first nuptial Thanksgiving with my husband, I heard my otherwise kind and sensitive husband talk about the female vagina like it was some lurid monstrosity – some poorly lubricated beast made of rust kept in the garage perhaps – that is when I had that moment my Mother warned me of.

Year after year after that - increasingly embarrassed - I have to remind him that there are limits in the appropriateness of humor at the family Thanksgiving Meal. Yet he doesn’t seem to get the point.

Women and children at the table clearly aren’t enough to signify discretion. One year, I was startled to learn that my husband seems to have been writing his own jokes, and a group of astonished guests waiting for their pumpkin pie were entertained to some of these strange witticisms, shouted, with much, much hilarity on the jester’s part:

“Your wet pussy is my cock’s pipedream”

“Your pussy may be like a glass of water, but it’s always half full”

“If your pussy was a car accident, I’d drive drunk”

“If your pussy was a gas tank, I’d lower the price of oil”

“If your pussy was a speech impediment, I’d develop tourrouttes”

“If licking your pussy lowered my IQ, I’d be in a coma”

And that was just the beginning; he was particularly aggressive that year.

2 years after that was perhaps the most memorable for me because one of his rhymes really shot home. Here it is, in all its tact:

I use it to create saliva, to chew my food

So honey – quit your whinin’;

It’s called it a tongue,

And not meant to reach the hymen.

Obviously, I was mortified. When our neighbor’s 12 year old asked his mother what a hymen was as they were leaving, I was particularly mortified, because due to the fact that my husband had written the so-called jokes, part of me felt the little boy was inquiring of my hymen, and of course, by extension….I know it was stupid, but I sort of took it personally. In the end, no decent wife really wants a husband who tells pussy jokes in her presence, especially when they are possibly about her own vagina. Besides, the hymen is on the outside of the vagina. I told him this later, and he shrugged, stating that his humor was intended for the working man, that considered the hymen to be on the inside of the vagina: “Deeply inside.”

This year two of my daughter’s decided to bring their boyfriends to our envelope-pushing table. This might leave some incredulous, but it is truly a testament to how truly kind a soul my husband is, in their eyes. My youngest daughter kept reminded me, “Please, Mom; tell Dad no pussy jokes - It will really embarrass John.” How young my youngest is.

It isn’t for anyone else but for me that I have decided to medicate my husband. The embarrassment of other people and the fallout have really become a perennial disposition that is no different than another severe case of the flu I wish to avoid; Some one particular person’s feelings being hurt is a concept that has become too generalized and abstract for me after 23 years of Thanksgiving pussy humor.

I have had to do my homework. I wheedled a fair amount of trial packets of Paxil, Luvox, Zoloft and Prozac from physicians, which gave me time to practice some food chemistry. All but Prozac tended to leave very bitter tastes in salty foods and Zoloft and Luvox would leave an abundant and disgusting frothy substance in all carbonated beverages, which was very frustrating.

Prozac was by far the least intractable, and therefore seemed to be the one chosen by our patient. Though severe onset diarrhea is present initially, once the 100mg dosage is cut back to 40mg, probably a more reasonable starting point, since you are supposed to start at 10mg and move up, symptoms of diarrhea seem to be griped about much less. So does chronic insomnia…griped about much less I mean. I joke.

Since I’m not a psychiatrist, I made sure to read the insert carefully, but was quickly overwhelmed by the listing of side effects, which ranged from suicide to elation to dizziness and nausea to sundry more. How was I supposed to deal with all these potentialities? I’ve no medical training. Clearly, my husband would be taking this trip alone, and hopefully would be taking his pussy jokes with him.

Nevertheless, I’ve never believed that ignorance in one area should lead to a premature abandon of hope in our skill in another related area. I employed a vigorous behavioral approach as well, and every 2 weeks, for a month, after I emptied his morning 40mg dose into his coffee and gently mixed it in, I would gently poke his elbow and say with ironic reproach: “Now remember: No pussy jokes this Thanksgiving!”

And it all worked out exceedingly well, I am delighted to say. My husband may have been a bit suspiciously subdued, but really, suspiciously subdued… to whom? I suppose the police are going to come and investigate me for practicing medicine without a license because my husband didn’t make that joke about the befuddled first-year gynecology resident dealing with the grumpy out-of-work prostitute who had to discontinue chemo because she couldn’t afford to pay her health insurance because of severe pussy dryness in front of my youngest’ 14 year old catholic boyfriend.

I suppose I should taper him, but he tends to get sort of despondent this time of year anyway.