I'm a big Chelsea Handler fan. I love her confidence, her wit and her honesty. She has been in the news lately for her comment regarding marriage where she said she's "not the marrying kind." In an interview with Gwyneth Paltrow, seen here on the Huffington Post, Handler says, "The truth of the matter is, I don't really know how to balance a relationship and my life. I've never been able to really do that." She goes on to explain that she's "a better, happier human being" when she can focus entirely on her friends, family and her job, but then again, she has not met her soulmate yet.
I personally believe that if Chelsea meets the right man, one that she truly feels she cannot live without and they compliment each other, she would pull the trigger and walk down the isle.
As a matchmaker, I would say that 99 percent of the women that I work with want marriage. Many require me to clarify that the men I represent are interested in marriage; otherwise, they are not interested in meeting. I think that most women still do like to have that commitment from a man. It makes us feel secure and cherished, that the man loves us so much, that he can't live without us and wants to seal the deal and put a ring on it.
However, it can be a challenge for woman with a demanding career. It's like walking a tightrope, trying to balance both sides of life, and often, everything comes crashing down. I completely understand where Chelsea is coming from, and also the fact that she always knew that she didn't want children.
I have been married for the third time, for thirteen years. The first lasted almost four, and the second lasted for seven, and I must say that it has always been a challenge to perfectly balance my career and domestic side. I feel like I am on a hamster wheel, trying to run my business, keep up with my household responsibilities, take care of the house, my husband, Adolfo and our canine fur daughter, Macie. Finding time for my family, friends, hobbies, and working out at the gym six days per week to stay healthy, attractive and have the stamina to do everything I need to do becomes a challenge. If I had added a child into the mix, I don't know what would have happened. My hat goes off to working mothers; you are truly amazing!
Adolfo is originally from Mexico. On our annual visit, we stay with his brother Alberto and his wife, Veronica. Veronica is a successful attorney, but somehow manages to whip up amazing breakfasts including fresh squeezed orange juice, as well as delicious homemade dinners for Alberto nightly. Every year, I vow to channel my inner Veronica, and master a few fantastic Mexican dishes to make for Adolfo and to always have something in the fridge to heat up, but alas...Veronica I shall never be. This story from my memoir, Diary of a Beverly Hills Matchmaker pretty much says it all:
"We are going to some friend's for Thanksgiving dinner. Adolfo was nice enough to pick me up some ingredients at the store. I want to bring something to share. For last year's Thanksgiving gathering, I tried to make vegan cupcakes and ended up giving the whole batch to our neighbor's dog since they were basically inedible. One year, I attempted to make macaroni and vegan cheese and blew up the blender."
"Adolfo is always telling me that I am not domestic. I intend to show him that I'm so domestic, I deserve a new kitchen that can accommodate my true talents. I'm not only baking pumpkin cupcakes with chocolate frosting — okay, the cupcakes are from a mix and the frosting is from a can — but I've also bought little gingerbread-men molds. Hmmm, I see that Adolfo bought German chocolate instead of a gingerbread mix. This should still work, and everyone will ooh and ahh and be very impressed—or at least relieved I haven't brought something weird. The baking goes well, and I feel semi-victorious until I slice my right index finger on the metal edge of the Saran wrap box and scream. Blood gushes onto the counter. Adolfo comes running out of his studio."
"What happened, Marlita? What did you do now?" He sees the blood. "You need a maid."
"No! You don't understand. If I didn't have to work so much, I would be totally domestic — cooking and cleaning like crazy. I am a wonderful cook. And I can bake, believe me, I can!" Tears stream down my face. I feel like I might not get a new house if I'm not certifiably domestic.
"You are a matchmaker!" he says. "Not a housewife, and that's fine with me." He hands me a Band-Aid.
"But I am domestic," I cry, tears of frustration rolling down my cheeks.
I'm not, of course, and that's okay.
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