By Hugh O'NeilOne husband learns he's not the stuff his wife's fantasies are made of. Will his pride (and their marriage) survive? My wife and I were in bed one night, watching folksinger James Taylor on the tube, when my world was changed forever. "Now, he's my type," Jody purred hungrily.
"Pardon me, doll?" I said, sure I'd heard her wrong.
"He's my type," she repeated, suddenly aware of what she'd said and how she'd said it.
"Your type?" I croaked.
"Yeah, you know, all tall and lanky," she...