Ward and June Christmas.

I realize that in this modern world referring back to Ward and June Cleaver's wedded bliss is a joke, but didn't it look great? Is it wrong to wish for something that ridiculously cheesy? Of course, it wouldn't be ridiculously cheesy if this wasn't such a jaded, angst-ridden era. Why is it laughable to want a happy relationship? One where the husband comes home and comments on the wife's hairdo? Plays a little catch in the front yard with the kid before dinner? Everyone sits down to dinner together? They talk about the day, laugh, encourage one another. Why is it silly to admire that today? Because I can't have it? Is it quioxtic to dream about sitting in front of a Christmas tree with a kind, funny man who reads the newspaper, a book every once in a while? Maybe he's a little musical, too. Well, if I'm being preposterous, I may as well go all the way with it. He could strum a few notes on a guitar. Maybe a Christmas carol or two. He'd leave the putting together of toys to me because I enjoy that sort of thing. But he'd put the Christmas lights up and the tacky holiday yard art. In the spring, we'd work together in the yard until the whole thing was a giant garden. OK. I realize I'm treading into the realm of the highly unlikely, but I don't think I'll get married again unless the man is holding a sign that reads: From the realm of the highly unlikely. Your house or bust.