I was standing with my friend and colleague Diana at the printer in the middle of the bustling Variety newsroom, when he walked in. His polo shirt was neatly tucked into his jeans, which he wore with a belt. His hair was closely cut. I'd just broken up with someone. There had been a common characteristic that my previous three boyfriends had shared. They were triflers. The types of guys who would borrow your car when you were sick with the chicken pox to take out another girl. The type of guy who would speed through dark city streets at 1:45 a.m. to find a bar that would serve them one last drink. This guy did look like a trifler. He looked solid. He held a portfolio and as he walked over to the graphic designers' series of cubicles, which indicated that he was not only solid, but also creative. I asked Diana: "Who's that?" "Oh, that's Dale. He's here to interview for the weekend shift. We actually used to date." "Oh," I replied, crestfallen. "Actually," she said with a conspiratorial smile. "I think it could work." She was right. He's now my husband and the father of my two children. He makes dinner every night. He packs the lunches for our kids and does laundry. And he's definitely not a trifler.