Often my kitchen dinette booth becomes a confessional when my girlfriends are over sipping wine.

“There’s something I need to talk about,” Nancy said.

I went to the fridge and found some Brie. I brought it to the table along with a package of gourmet shop wafer thin crackers. As I was carefully unwrapping them and placing them in a circle around the Brie, Nancy got up, went to my cupboard and grabbed the super-size bag of Nestlé’s chocolate bits.

With a handful already in her mouth, she sat back down. I could barely understand her garbled words. “It’s the golf thing,” she said.

“The golf thing,” I said, not knowing what the heck she was talking about.

“Do you have any marshmallows?” she said, making a pyramid of chocolate bits on a cracker.

I gently took the bag from her clenched fist. “Nancy, honey, food is never the answer. Now tell me what’s wrong.” I took a micro sip of wine.

“What’s wrong?” she said, looking around frantically for my cookie jar. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong. Paul likes golf more than he likes me.”

“I’ve known and loved you both for years.” I put a fingernail slice of Brie on a half inch of cracker. “That couldn’t possibly be true,” I said. She took the Nestlé’s bag and held it like a funnel above her mouth. I took it away.

“Oh yeah?” she said. “Last night when we were in bed and just about asleep, I whispered softly to him, ‘Hey there sweetheart, wanna play around?’ and you know what he said?”

I picked up the wine bottle and swigged. “What?”

He turned away from me and said, “I already played two rounds this weekend - and in the sun. I have a headache.”

“Well,” I took one chocolate bit and let it melt slowly in my mouth “Here’s what you should do.”

With the wide-eyed look of a child seeing Santa Claus, she waited for my advice.

“You should go with him and have him show you how to golf.”

“Good idea. I’ll give it shot,” she grabbed the bag of chocolate and ran to her car. Three days later she was back. We sat at my confessional.

“Have you ever played golf?” she asked me.

“Well, no.”

“Let me tell you about it.” She went to the fridge and opened the cheese drawer. She found a nut-covered cheese log. She peeled back the clear wrapping and bit into it like a hot dog. Then she sat down, cheese in hand. “First of all, it’s not about wearing your basic slimming black. Everything’s lime green and has whales on it. Trust me. It’s not flattering.” There was a hunk of yellow cheese on her chin. I tenderly took it off. She grabbed it from my fingers and ate it.

“Then you concentrate for an inordinate amount of time on the little ball in front of your feet. And everybody’s got to be REALLY quiet while you stare dramatically at the ball. Then you look far, far away to the green where the ball’s supposed to go, as if looking so intently will somehow make it more likely to happen. Then you start to swing – you move your club a little, change your mind, then do it again, but this time you add an inch more to the swing. Then, like a big tease, you do the whole preparation process again. Then you do the intense-stare thing seven thousand more times. And eventually, thank God, you swing. Believe me. You can’t just go up there, put the ball on the tee and swing. The golf course is the only place that men really do practice foreplay – and like it.”

I tore the cheese log from her hand and took a longshoreman’s bite out of it. “What about your children? Tell me they don’t like golf, Nancy.”

“Hah!” She took the cheese back, broke it in two and handed me half. “The twins call themselves Daddy’s Caddies. Makes me nauseous.”

“OK, here’s what I think,” I said. “You need to tell Paul how you feel. You need to sit down and honestly talk to him from your heart. Tell him that you feel that he spends too much time on the golf course and not enough time with you. Tell him that you love him but that your needs are important. And, Nancy, you have to express yourself directly and lovingly, with respect for his feelings too. That’s what communication is all about.”

“I did that.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, ‘Hey you piece of dreck – remember what Farrah Fawcett did to her husband in that movie?’ And he said, ‘What movie?’ And I took out my cigarette lighter and said, ‘The Burning Bed’.”

“That’s not exactly the kind of communication I had in mind.”

Just then, there was a knock on my kitchen door. I recognized Paul through the glass and motioned for him to come in.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” I said, patting the seat next to me for him to sit.

“And I’m just thrilled,” Nancy said rolling her eyes.

He sat across from her and took her hand. “We never have time to talk anymore,” he said.

“Gee Darling, I wonder why?”

I rapped her knuckle with a fork. “Give him a chance,” I said.

“Every time we try to discuss your problems with golf,” he said, “you get so sarcastic and I can’t get a word in edgewise.”

Nancy sat back and folded her arms in front of her. “The floor’s all yours.”

Paul took a deep breath and composed himself. “I know that I leave you with too much housework, what with raising the kids and all.”

“Well that’s breaking news,” Nancy said and I shot her a “knock it off” look.

“And most of my time away from work is spent on the golf course rather than with you.”

“You see, Nancy?” I said. “Communication is the key here.” I nodded encouragingly at Paul.

“And I’ve forgotten important dates like birthdays and I’ve forgotten to get things you’ve asked me to pick up.” He hung his head in shame. Nancy didn’t move.

I patted him on the back. “Good for you, Paul. It’s good to get these things out in the open. Now  . . .  go ahead.”

He raised his head. “What.”

“Go ahead, Paul,” I said. “Tell your wife what can be done about it.”

“What can be done about it?”

“Yes, of course,” I said. “Now let’s hear how you intend to solve the problem.”

“Solve the problem?”

“Who am I talking to? A parrot?”

“Hey! I did my part. I just ‘expressed myself’ at your kitchen table. You know how hard that is for us men to do. Now I’m supposed to solve everybody’s problems too?”

We heard a car honking outside. “Oh no,” I said. “Don’t tell me your buddies are picking you up here for a game.” He looked upset. I went to the fridge and took out some club soda and lemon juice. I found a half pint of vanilla ice cream in the freezer and carefully mixed it all together in the blender for forty-five seconds. Then I poured it into a large glass pitcher and dumped it on his head.

Nancy got up from her chair, grabbed her sweater and purse and opened the back door. She artfully swung her sweater over her shoulder and looked back at us with a victory grin. “That’s my ride,” she said. “I’m spending the day in P’town with some friends. Have a ball, so to speak,” she laughed. “He’s all yours.”

We could hear her laughing all the way to the car.