In her new monthly column, Susan Reinhardt (and her mama, and a handful of Asheville psychotherapists) will dish out relationship advice. Send her your love woes and conundrums. She’ll have you fixed up in no time. Just remember: she’s a columnist, not a magician.

by Susan Reinhardt . photo by Rimas Zailskas

First, the dirt. Relationships shouldn’t be as tortuous as entering a Port-a-John. Be it a love interest or an icky neighbor, I’m here to help you solve those unpleasant situations.

It’s not like I have a Ph.D. or anything. When it comes to doling out advice, it’s just me, my friends, my long-married quirky mama and 47 ex-boyfriends. Oh, and a handful of local therapists on speed dial. Toss out your problems, and I’ll help you tackle sensitive subjects when it comes to the bedrooms or battlegrounds of amour.

Maybe I tanked with most of own my buzzard fleet, the nickname I gave my line-up of boyfriends and fiancés past. It’s so much easier to give good advice than take it. But toss it to me. Whether the cad under your comforter refuses to marry you, or the fellow pinging thy tender heart is a low-down cheatin’ drunk, this is why I’m here. I’ve had every kind of boyfriend: from those scared to commit (you know the type who’d rather get neutered than hitched) to the oddball millionaire who bathed his face like a raccoon before every meal. At the dinner table.

So ladies (and gents), send me those stories of love’s wrong turns, the beauty and the blunders, the meet-the-family faux pas. Even those moments when you find yourself saying: “Why has my teenage son suddenly turned into a bratty, pot-hoovering toddler?” Send the trouble my way. I’ll either mine my own failures and successes or poll my “experts.” Soon, we’ll get your relationships off skid row and back in the easy chair.

Before we get down to business, here’s a bit about me: My own love life over the years resembles a patchwork quilt, some squares holding up and others in tatters. Having been engaged six times and married twice, I’ve learned the hard way what works and what doesn’t. In fact, like everyone else, I’m still learning.

My first engagement, to a man 20 years my senior, lasted less than an hour. I was working as a reporter for the Myrtle Beach Sun News and he sauntered into the newsroom looking just like Robert Redford in his heyday. He approached my desk as I was eating a brownie, and crumbs fell from my chin. He asked me out anyway.

He proposed at sunset by a beach hotel. An hour later, he was chatting and feeling up some tipsy realtor in a restaurant, so I called a cab and dashed home. I was so crushed and young. So foolish and unseasoned. He has a prominent spot in my buzzard fleet under the heading Raccoon Man. After his cheat-fest, I bought a one-way ticket to the Virgin Islands and lived in a tent at Maho Bay, drinking beer and snorkeling until my savings turned to zero.

It’s true. If you leave them, they will follow. Men simply can’t tolerate a woman bowing out, even if their interest is barely flickering. Raccoon Man followed me to the islands and we endured for another rocky year.

After it was over, I moved to these mountains. There were a couple of other semi-fiancés that didn’t work out due to typical relationships daggers: “Gosh, the guy’s a drunk,” or “Why won’t he get a job?”

I met my first husband of 18 years at Bele Chere where he was playing the chrome off his saxophone. I’ll admit I’m a fool for musicians. I married this man, birthed two children, suffered through four separations and almost as many reconciliations. Finally, we divorced a few years ago.

The pain turned me into a size 2 zombie. Call it the Divorce Diet. My current husband and I met in the psych unit of St. Joseph’s hospital. We were both patients, aching with severe depression due to the loss of our spouses and broken homes. “You don’t have to go to Match.com to meet a great man,” I tell my close friends. “There are some real hotties at the Nut Hut.”

We fell in love during art therapy, Crayolas in hand, and ran off and married in Negril this past New Year’s Eve. Hubby 2 lives and works as an attorney in Burnsville. I live and work in Asheville. We have a commuter marriage for now, and it’s working brilliantly because he doesn’t know I hoard beauty products. Yes, I’m a pure slut for pricey wrinkle creams. But enough about me. I’m here and ready to take on your relationship woes. Bring them on.

Send Susan your problems at susan@susanreinhardt.com.