9. Never apologize. If, in the odd event you do something that hurts your husband, or . . . say the unlikely occasion arises where you were woefully and ridiculously wrong on an issue, never, I mean never, under any circumstance, apologize for anything.

Why should you say you’re sorry? You’re the Queen of Mean, the Belle of Bitterness and culpable for nothing. You’re not going to apologize because . . . uh . . . well, um . . . the wrong you did wasn’t entirely your fault. Hello. He knows that. You have low blood sugar. And on that day when you screwed up and made yourself look like an ass by wrongfully axe-grinding on your man, it was because you didn’t have your afternoon Butterfinger fix. As a matter of fact, your husband, yes, your husband (whom you had put in charge of stockpiling your Butterfinger reserves) let the coffers run dry. Which means (that’s right!), he is actually responsible for your demonic manifestation. Thus, it’s him, I tell you . . . it’s your husband who should apologize, dammit. You . . . apologize? Please.

Whether it’s low blood sugar, PMS, PBS, Global Warming, the vast ring wing conspiracy or Bill O’Reilly, you, the marital femme fatale, are fortunate to live in the 21st century. In this therapeutic age you are afforded excuses aplenty that will help you destroy your marriage by never owning or asking for forgiveness for your hellish behavior.

10. Look bugly (butt ugly). Women come in all shapes and sizes. The majority of men that I know (who love the testosterone, heterosexual, God-blessed fog in which they dwell) really like women. From Calista Flockhart to Queen Latifa, to them . . . it’s all good. That is, as long as the ladies take care of what the good Lord has given them. The successful marriages I’ve seen know and abide by this golden nugget: always look your best . . . to constantly attract and show respect for your mate. It also aids in not terrifying dogs and small children.

Staying attractive messes with your husband’s head. It makes him think, “holy guacamole” when he sees you. It makes him envision you while he’s at work or out of town. It makes the boys’ night out a little shorter—especially when you tell him, as he’s leaving the house, that you’ve got the outfit from the lower right-hand corner of page 96 of the Victoria Secret Spring catalogue waiting to be modeled for him if he’s home by 10pm.

However, since you’re focused on mucking up your marriage, you’ve got to look bugly. Here’s how it goes. Your husband’s getting a little belly, so why shouldn’t you match it? Or better yet, better it? You should blow off regular exercising, occasional tanning and wearing sexy perfumes. Don’t bleach that hair on your lip, don’t wash your greasy hair or follow current fashion; just plow on with your hellish couture . . . the over sized t-shirts, oily skin, stretch pants and that hair style you got from 1906 Sears catalogue. To heck with your husband (and the world) if he doesn’t like your looks. Your goal is to make him love you for who you are, not what you look like.

And with that, I’m done with “How Wives Can Ruin Their Marriage.” Go for it, ladies. Maybe, just maybe, you can take Elsa Lancaster’s old role in the upcoming Bride of Frankenstein remake. Work hard and keep your fingers crossed. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, eh? Don’t deviate from these principles, because if you do, you might end up with a happy marriage. Yecch.

One more thing: I’ve been asked by many people and talk show hosts if I’m going to do a series regarding how husbands can ruin their marriages. My answer: I’m not feeling it right now. There are plenty of books on Amazon.com that deal with that subject. And anyways, I think the boys have had their knuckles rapped for too long and for too much while the girls have been allowed to walk with impunity.

So . . . I wouldn’t look for anything from me anytime soon on that topic. When things, blame wise, balance out—and if I’m still alive and if the price is right and I’m not hunting or painting or vacationing with my family . . . or watching grass grow or re-reading the operational manual of the hinge or having my fingernails slowly removed by an angry sadistic midget with pliers—then and only then, I might write something which goes after the guys.