Do Lawyers Make a Marriage?

By John Leo

Wanda: Quiz time, Ralph. Jacalyn Barnett is an attorney who recommends "highlighting the legal consequences of love." What do you suppose she is talking about?

Ralph: About $200 an hour in paternity-suit litigation, my pet. Maybe $300 if you're bright enough to specialize in rock singers.

Wanda: Outstandingly wide of the mark, Ralph. Actually, the subject is marriage contracts -- prenuptial agreements, if you will. Barnett is head of the matrimonial department at a New York law firm, and she calls the prenuptial agreements legal valentines that can be "loving and protective documents."

Ralph: Lawyers are such incurable romantics, Wanda. But this contract business is hardly new. Why bring it up now?

Wanda: Because there's been an exciting breakthrough in prenuptials, Ralph. In the old days, people concentrated on protecting themselves financially in case of divorce. Today couples are adding life-style clauses. Sociologist Lenore Weitzman, author of The Marriage Contract, calls them blueprints for behavior.

Ralph: For instance?

Wanda: Well, a contract might stipulate that the husband agrees to do half the vacuuming and child rearing or take the wife out to dinner at least twice a week for the length of the marriage. Then there are sexual provisions. One contract might specify that the husband can fool around only when he is out of town. Some agreements say the husband or wife gets a night or two out each week with no questions asked, and many contracts insist that the bride and groom detail their sexual life histories before the wedding.

Ralph: One can't start recriminations too early in a marriage. You know, Wanda, pushing back the frontier of the preposterous is arduous labor, and I often wonder why lawyers and sociologists have to shoulder so much of the burden.

Wanda: Don't blame them, Ralph. Couples want these agreements. In fact, it's the stick-in-the-mud lawyers and family counselors who don't really approve. Robert Herman, an attorney in Rochester, calls life-style clauses "an awful waste of money," and Don Smith, a California counselor, says, "It goes from the frivolous to the ridiculous." He says he has helped couples negotiate "everything from who's going to pick up the doggie poo to the usual stuff on feeding the kids and doing the dishes."

Ralph: Look at the advantages, dearest. Because of this brilliant legal breakthrough, faulty dog-poop removal may be proper grounds for divorce.

Wanda: Not really, Ralph. Only the financial provisions seem to be enforceable. Barnett drew up a clause for a man who wanted his wife to remain slim, so the marriage contract said she would pay a fine if she gained weight, refundable upon weight loss. It's probably legally binding. Weitzman wants to see "liquidated damages." If the hubby is supposed to fix the plumbing and doesn't, he would have to pay the value of that service as a fine.

Ralph: It might be easier to remain single and just hire the help, beloved wife. For one thing, your plumber can't fine you if you develop crow's-feet or receding gums. Unless, of course, his work contract has a life-style clause prepared by Barnett.

Wanda: It's not as dumb as you think, my naysaying husband. People have higher expectations of marriage than they used to, and the attempt to list some of these expectations is all to the good. It wouldn't be such a bad idea for us to work out a contract, Ralph.

Ralph: Trippingly told, my sweet. O.K., in the absence of a pettiness adviser, let's hammer out our own contract.

Wanda: You go first.

Ralph: O.K. I want you to respect my two favorite hobbies -- watching TV and resting. You will owe me money if you ever criticize Joe DiMaggio, serve sodium-free potato chips, or bring into this house any book written by a sea gull or Leo Buscaglia. Outside of that, I'm easy. Of course, if I stick flamingos in the front yard, defend secondhand smoke or say something coarse about the snail darter, I'll pay you. I will agree never to go bald. And naturally, I expect you to remain wrinkle free and wasp waisted until further notice from an impartial panel made up of myself, Bert Parks and my attorney. Since we own no pets, I am willing to waive the dog-poop provision. Do you think this will remove the romance from our marriage, dearest? If so, I could add a romance-preservati on codicil to the general warmth-maintenance provision. How am I doing?

Wanda: Not at all well, Ralph. Only an elephant could miss your ponderously expressed point. I assume it's my turn.

Ralph: Don't hold back, sweetest. It may prove salvific for our connubial aspirations.

Wanda: All right. You will pick up your underwear four or more times each week, or it will be confiscated and displayed for guests during dinner parties. You will remember the dates of my birthday and our anniversary or have them tattooed on your chest in mirror writing so you can meditate on them while shaving. We will go out to dinner at least once during October, even though it is the sacred time of the baseball playoffs, and you will remain eligible to talk in 10-sec. bursts or more during Monday-night football. You will cease all jokes about how I wake up in the middle of the night smelling dust, and you will learn how to work the vacuum and the toaster.

( Ralph: I think we have a meeting of the minds here, my pet. Can I add the provision that you won't say goodbye to everyone at parties then stand in the doorway talking to the hostess for an hour, or is this behavior under genetic control?

Wanda: You're pushing it, Ralph. What did Marilyn Monroe see in DiMaggio, anyway? Shouldn't she have had a marriage contract?

Ralph: That's ten bucks for attacking Joe. Say, Wanda, does it seem dusty in here to you?