after months of pontificating the greatness of apple's iphoto to the wife, she finally sat down at the mac to create a photo album. It is a very graphical application requiring much mousing around.

i stopped to check her progress and noticed she had propped the keyboard up vertically against the monitor in a completely unusable position.

me - why is the keyboard up like that, how are you using it?
the wife - i'm not using it, i needed more desk space.
me - desk space for what?
the wife - the mouse, i couldn't get to the left side of the screen, the keyboard was in the way.
me - oh.

then comes the dilemma, should i explain the mouse can be moved left, lifted and moved left again? or should i just buy a larger desk?

my son's elementary school employs about 12 fifth graders wearing bright orange to direct traffic through the drop off zone, open and close car doors and direct the younger students.

one of the orange kids directed me to pull forward, and stop. he then opened the door, helping to unload sons one and two. upon completing his duties, he told me to have a good day. he then peered around the interior of the car for an extended moment. his head sort of swayed in a stevie wonder / ray charles sort of way. his eyes didn't focus on anything in particular and seemed distant. he then closed the door and we pulled away from the curb.

the wife - "was he blind?"

mr. sarcasm (me) - "yes honey, the school is now using blind children to direct traffic and aid the sighted students across busy streets and in and out of cars"

rock on, stevie.

as previously reported, mowing the lawn can be an enlightening experience of deep contemplation. saturday i pushed the mower, head down, keeping the line and watching for small toys or critters hiding in the grass. i lifted my head just in time to see a giant hawk effortlessly riding a slight breeze, heading towards me. only 20 feet above the ground, his 5 foot wingspan seemed to fill the entire sky. each intricate feather making up his wings was clearly visible. just above my head, he rode a thermal and circled up to 40 feet.

i released the mower, the motor kill switch activated, and i stood in perfect silence staring up at the magnificent bird. it was as if he was putting on a show just for me. the drifting silhouette contrasted against the bright blue sky was more than dramatic. as i watched, a second hawk found the same thermal and circled well above the first.

an incredible feeling of synchronicity smothered me. interaction of myself, earth, sky, the hawks and all around us was aligned and perfect. i had momentarily jacked into the cosmic rhythm that binds the most elementary particles of the vibrating strings to the most grand and elegant universe. it is an amazing feeling, all is revealed, yet nothing is answered.

later that day i begin to tell my wife of this incredibly personal moment of enlightenment. when i tell her the hawks were circling directly above my head, she furrows her brow and slightly squints at me. i pause waiting for her to say something deep...

"maybe they thought your head was a really big fuckin' egg."

she's probably right.

the wife is the designated worrier for the family. the boys and i skip through life intoxicated with thoughts like, how many bees can i fit in my mouth or do rotating fan blades taste different than a stationary ones.

the wife worries about shit that only she can imagine. thoughts like replacing all our forks with plastic ones on the chance an escaped mental patient breaks into our home and tries to kill us with our own fork.

so anyway, school starts today. the first day of kindergarten for son 2. last night she confessed to being nervous about it. knowing a little about how her brain works, i jokingly teased her.

me - you know your going to have dreams tonight about forgetting your locker combination or forgetting an exam or missing the school bus.

the wife - i have those dreams every day of my life, why would tonight be any different?

i can only wonder what it's like to be a prisoner of her brain. but i really wonder this paper clip would fit in that electrical outlet over there. it looks like a perfect fit.

you know that party game where some one whispers a message into another's ear and in turn they whisper it into another's ear? after ten or so people the message has completely changed from the original message.

well, the wife eliminates the need for nine other people.

a couple years ago she came home from a mother's night out with an odd story. the girls were discussing personal grooming habits. one of the mothers was bitching about the hassle of daily leg shaving. another offered up the declaration that she shaves her most feminine of areas into the shape of a swastika.

at this point in the story, i shall pause for you to pick you jaw up from off the floor.

i found this shocking, i didn't know the woman well, but i always thought she had a descent sense of fashion. never noticed her wearing military boots or those bluish grey puffy pants that make your hips look big. come to think of it though, i've never seen her with a jew, so it must be true.

i must admit, this has played on my mind for some time. would it be proper to notify the fbi of such grooming activities? beyond that, it would be a rather complicated design armed only with a bic. i often wished i could un-hear this little nugget of gossip.

recently, i heard howard stern refer to a very small but neatly groomed furry area of a female guest as a "hitler's mustache". all the sudden things made sense.

me - remember a long time ago, you told me a friend admitted shaving herself in the shape of a swastika?
wife - yeah, so...
me - are you sure she didn't say in the shape of hitler's mustache?
wife - uh, maybe.
me - well, that's kind of a big mistake, don't you think?
wife - same difference.

no, not same difference. if any female readers are contemplating a new doo down there, word up. hitler's mustache, hot. a swastika not.

only 6 weeks from dropping the baby load, the wife is well into nesting mode. a honey-do list exists in a constant state of flux, she is continuously adding and prioritizing tasks. i say prioritizing, but what it really means is everything needs to be done now.

my vulcan mind is logical. too logical for her tastes. my advanced math skills deduced the 18 months required to complete the honey-do list is greater than the 6 weeks remaining. so, a task analysis was required to determine which tasks are considered mission critical.

previous experience with tiny humans aided me in determining the criteria for identifying mission critical tasks. mission critical criteria hinges on the primary activities of sleeping, eating and making poo, lots and lots of poo.

amazingly, applying the criteria to the honey-do list, only a few tasks remain. in fact, the list is significantly shorter, leaving bonus time for gentlemen's clubs, opium dens and playing the ponies.

the remaining tasks? to address the sleeping issue i moved some socks around in my drawer into a comfy little nest shape. about the eating issue, i have cut two holes in all of the wife's shirts to provide the little critter always on, twentyfour seven access to the feed bags. for the poo situation, i placed a turd silo (diaper genie) in every room.

there are a few tasks i have logically put off for the time being.

hanging wood cut letters that spell his name on the wall. in depth task analysis revealed cognitive reading skills develop around 4 years (or never if shielded properly). no hurry there.

hanging a butterfly mobile from the ceiling. i am certain homosexuality is not a conscious choice or even an influenced behavior, but why take a chance?

fixing the magnetic latch on the right side door of the changing table to equal the magnetic strength of the left side door latch. task analysis reveals that changing the magnetic forces of the earth to accomplish this might goof up some other fairly important things. besides it works fine, just not the way she would like it to work.

i am not sure why she is so emotional about the honey-do list. perhaps she fears the infant will come home from the hospital, not see his name in wood cut letters hanging above the crib and stomp off in a huff, never to return.

remember the tinkle machine? above is the wife's latest acquisition, a digital tinkle machine. far superior to the analog tinkle machine, it generates SIX different bladder inducing sounds.

1. Spring Rain (otherwise known as despair springs eternal.)
2. Woodlands (also called angry squirrel orgy)
3. Summer Nights (or night of the locust)
4. Ocean Waves (or trucks on the highway, as i call it.)
5. White Noise (also known as AM radio static.)
6. Mountain Stream (other wise known as the big tinkle.)

at the paltry price point of 30 bucks, it hardly seems one could pack much more value into the plastic clam. Au contrair, mon frere! the digital tinkle machine also broadcasts in surround-a-smell. yep, as rob tyner once screamed, "kick out the stink mother #$%@ers" or something to that effect. the marketing propaganda describes the odors as:

1. Relaxation, composed of soothing lavender, chamomile and sage (smells like a blue haired grandmother)
2. Invigoration, composed of purifying eucalyptus, peppermint and lemongrass (koala bears go crazy for this one!)
3. Rejuvenation, composed of refreshing seaweed, orange and lemongrass (mmmmm, seaweed.)
4. Inhalation, composed of stimulating rosemary, lemongrass and jasmine (a pleasent mix rosemary clooney's ashes and sweat collected from the under arms of jasmine guy. i think.)

although it only comes with those four "aroma beads", i have been concocting a few of my own beads (spring morning breath, sweet scrotum sweat, and acrid cheese breeze).

the wife claims she bought the machine to drown out the sound of my nightly snoring. unfortunately, she informed me that she now knows what it sounds like when sleeping next to me on the beach (or highway for that matter). If the intent of the audio was to drown out the snoring, i must assume the intent of the aroma is to drown out any nocturnal gas emissions.

in preparation for our trip to dizny wrld, my wife bought me a fanny pack. no you didn't just fall into a time portal, i will type it again for you, fanny pack.

when you are 19 you're cool every breathing moment, intentionaly or not. at 19 you could wear... oh, say, a plastic mesh truckers hat from 1972 and a pair of jeans cut so poorly your ass crack is visible and it looks cool. at 19 you could say something like "fo shizzle my bizzle" and it sounds cool.

at 37, you are only allocated 3 days of cool per year, and you are not told which days they are. might have been yesterday, might be tomorrow. you just don't know.

there is no way i am strapping on a fucking fanny pack.

i am fairly decent at useless trivia but completely inept at operating a phone. i can put in order from shortest to longest the following four units of measure; a fathom, an em, a hand, and a smoot. i can not successfully dial a phone in less than 4 attempts.

oddly, the combination of the two quirks has landed me in the wife's dog house.

each of the past five nights i have attempted to make the cut for who wants to be a super millionare by correctly answering five questions in a pre-recorded phone game. i never made it past the third question. not because i didn't know the correct answers, but because i am really bad a pushing buttons.

to successfully dial a phone, i need to look at a phone number as 7 single digit numbers rather than a single 7 digit number. on top of that, i must coordinate my behemoth index finger to correctly depress the tiny numbered push buttons. not. gonna. happen.

the wife is superbly talented at pushing buttons. i once asked her what her dream job would be. she said typing. she claims the satisfaction of swiftly and effortlessly stroking a keyboard puts her in the proverbial zone. un-teathered by the conscious mind, fingers traveling at 120 words a minutes, nirvana is achieved. alas, she sucks at trivia and couldn't give a rat's ass whether the fire ant stings or bites.

she has little understanding or tolerance for those unable to press buttons like myself. she has scolded at me all week for my failed attempts. isn't this sort of like yelling at some one for not winning the lottery?

as if the wife was not angry enough, last night a woman from our little town made it on the show. she didn't know moth larvae make mexican jumping beans jump. i knew it, but was sitting at home working the ass grove on my couch. the wife claims that should have been me sitting next to regis.

whatever.

so, to get escape the dog house, i figure i need to stop on the way home and pick up 10 million dollars.

oh and if you guessed em, hand smoot and fathom in that order, you may think your right but it is a trick question. an em is a unit of relative measure (twice as big as an en) based on point size. so if you had text over 6 feet tall, it might even surpass the length of a fathom.

oh and the fire ant does both, it bites to get a firm grip, then stings. the venom is in the stinger.

i swear the realtor said the master bedroom has "his and her sinks". come to find out, my wife tells me she said "her and her sinks". one she uses as a traditional sink with water and everything. the other one that resembles a sink is atually a storage bin for mysterious power tools she uses on her head. I am a man of little hair and have no idea what purposes these things serve other than to confuse me.

ultranote - hold the phone, upon closer inspection of my photo above, i realize that that three of the four devices have power cords. well, i have tumbled her game, she's not going to weasel out of this marriage with an "accidental death by electrocution" and a life insurance payment!

ultraultranote - gotta go, she needs me to retrieve something from the toaster with a fork.

what makes the door knob the perfect place to hang a bra? some times so many bras the knob becomes unusable.

soon all the knobs in the house will be adorned, and she will need to start using the outdoor knobs.

i believe the kitchen cupboard knobs may be an ideal place to hang jock straps.

i have never been good with the concept of money and how it all works. that is why i have wife.

i don't shop or really ever buy anything, stores frighten and confuse me. that is why i have wife.

wife keeps my life moving forward. without her i would lay in the fetal position on the closet floor.

recently i was in dire need clean underwear but i don't really understand how the machine that magically produces clean underwear works. again, that is why i have wife.

an impending business trip magnified the underwear situation, i was forced to work the machine or go shopping. on my way to the airport i stopped at tj maxx. the fact i stopped at tj maxx is an indication of how truly desperate i was. not that i believe i am above shopping at such a discount store, but, well, i am. anyway, i purchased fresh, clean, deeply discounted irregular underwear, and continued on to the airport.

wife monitors the checking account via the miracle of the web hourly. she noticed a transaction at tj maxx. odd she thought, knowing my disdain for both shopping and outlet stores. adding to the confusion, the transaction posted after i had left town. compounding the confusion, she had coincidentally shopped the same store two days earlier.

wife concluded that tj maxx was screwing us by running up bogus charges on the checking card used two days earlier. she called tj maxx and requested the manager (tj himself, i suppose). she then tore tj a new one. tj was very apologetic and promised to review by hand all the register tapes for the day to find the error (not a simple task).

in our evening update phone call, wife tells me this crazy story about tj maxx trying to screw us, and how she chewed out the manager and how nobody messes with her. her voice is filled with anger, bravado and confidence. I ask her the amount and realize it was my purchase. sheepishly, i told her about my shopping excursion. a panic stricken wife ended the conversation abruptly, "um, i gotta go. i need to call tj."

i arrived home to find the wife sporting a new doo, still fresh from the stylists chair. a grand departure from the previous doo, from long and curly to short and straight. one might even call it sassy. both she and I were pleased with the new doo, a rare coincidence.

the next morning, confused and intimidated by the tools required to maintain the new doo, she reverted to the previous doo. but now the hair is shorter, I believe the effort to create the old doo with the shorter length actually takes more time and effort than learning the new doo.

so, it looks kinda funny.

ultranote - no, my wife is not cher, my wife is much hotter. the cher images were used only to illustrate the story. actually, my wife and cher do share some undeniable similarities. both have two nostrils centrally located on their head, and both have eyes above the nose and a mouth below. i know, scary coincidence eh? but only one has a prehensile tail (look closely at the turn back time video on the navy boat).

this is the latest in a long line of things that have hung from the wife's rear view mirror. it is an artificial animal skin pouch containing some sort of pea sized objects. i call it the cheetah scrotum. i hate the scrotum more than any previous hangers, even more than the thingy that smelled like monkey urine and vanilla extract.

as if two boys, a cell phone, a dvd player and the constant blare of radio disney are not distraction enough, the cheetah scrotum swings wildly with every turn, brake or acceleration.

"well you see officer, it's like this. i was reaching to turn up the boys favorite song, YMCA, on radio disney to drown out their fighting when my eye caught a glimpse of the swinging cheetah scrotum. i was immediately hypnotized when the sudden ring of my cell phone violently jerked me from my hypnotic state causing me to accidentally eject the scooby-doo dvd with such force it ricochet off the back window and struck me in the back of the head. that's when i crashed into the fruit cart sending various fragile melons air born."

the other night, we went out to celebrate the wife's sister's birthday. old, married, and the owner of 2 offspring, i am unpracticed in the way of modern interaction between men and women in clubs of the night.

momentarily separated from the wife and sister-in-law, a woman stopped me to ask if i was wearing underwear. i told her i was. she then asked if she could have it. i told her no, it was my lucky pair and i didn't think my wife would approve.

back at the table i told the wife how i nearly lost my underwear. surprisingly, she responded by asking me why i didn't give up the skivvies.

i didn't know i could. I just assumed over the last ten years of marriage that underwear trading was not acceptable behavior. so, now i am in business. anyone out there tired of their current underwear situation and up for a trade?

mine are low mileage, fruit of the loom, tighty whities with only slight skid mark damage.

i love my wife for the occasional and somewhat rare appearances of adriana. adriana is what i named one of the wife's alter egos. adriana is similar to the wife, but with a slightly more exotic name.

the wife makes love, adriana gets busy. the wife tops her deserts with whipped cream, adriana tops me with whipped cream. the wife lovingly raises my boys, adriana punishes me for being a naughty boy. i think you get the idea.

so, you will believe me when i tell you, my jaw dropped and i experienced a stirring in the most manly of regions when I saw the above photo in the latest victoria’s secret mail order catalog.

it looks like i am not the only one with a dirty little ariana.

ultranote – why is it cool to have uncomfortable hard plastic beads that spell out your name threaded across a see through thong but it is totally uncool when i scrawl my name in magic marker across the elastic waistband of my fruit of the looms.

pictured above is the wife's most recently purchased accoutrement to adorn the new casa.

i call it the tinkle machine.

if you listen very closely, slightly audible above the whiring of a cheap water pump, you might hear the sounds of trickling water. the wife says many people find this sound soothing and peacefull.

who? certainly not survivors of the titanic, prisoners of war in china, that dutch boy, the wicked witch, and myself.

to me it is a constant reminder that i have to pee. these are not pleasent sounds to the guinness record holder for the world's smallest bladder (nearly ultramicroscopic in size).

the wife will hold up some but ugly picture or wall hanging and ask me where we should hang it. my standard response has become, "in the closet" or if it is double ugly, the garage.

the other day i gathered several or our ugliest and hung them in the walk in closet.

she didn't think it was funny.

i think my wife has grown weary of her appearances in this blog, or more specifically the "why i love my wife" category. i have learned she now calls her younger sister to ask questions that would end up as ultramicroscopic content if they were asked of me.

sister told me the wife rang her at work last week (from a fabric store) to inquire how many inches are in a foot, and how many feet are in a yard.

it is good to have informants.

ultranote - some readers have asked if the "why i love my wife" catagory is true and several dfw blogers doubt her existance. i can assure all, she does exist and it is all true, and that is why i love her.

ultraultranote - i was too lazy to create an image today so i borrowed the above image from the risk management division. i am unable to explain how the image relates to my text or why it makes me giggle.

we slowly drove around the townsquare searching for a place to eat. the wife spotted a sign resembling a british flag. it was a sign for the londoner, a restaurant/pub.

the wife - "hey, let's go there, the londoner, i think it's a german restaurant."

me - "yeah, maybe i can get the sushi plate."

the alternate title for this post was maybe, if hitler had won.

the wife lives by the clock. she has her life planned down to the minute. the loss of only a few seconds will confuse and disorient her. the loss of an entire hour will echo for weeks.

It is spring, and as we do every spring to honor the mystery of day light savings, we sprung forward an hour. actually the usage of "we" includes everyone except the wife.

the first 24 hours of daylight savings time, she lives in denial and refuses to acknowledge the change. i have learned to let it go, because i do not want to lose another hour of my life arguing with her about what time it "really" is.

the days following she may acknowledge the change when interacting with others that require standardized time (doctors, repairmen, mall shop owners, etc.) but family and friends are forced to live an hour in the past with her.

the weeks following are filled with whining about how screwed up everything is and how nothing feels right. it then becomes an excuse for anything that goes wrong. often times she uses it to her benefit, but some times she gets confused and claims excuses that would come from falling back an hour rather than springing forward an hour. whatever best suits her purpose.

october 26 we will fall back an hour, and she will once again descend into 4 weeks of chaos and anger.

part one

the wife handles all the finances her at the ultramicroscopic corporate offices. that means she rifles through my wallet multiple times a day, looking for receipts, and withdrawl slips to feed the insatiable quicken monster.

i always keep a several month old lottery ticket in the wallet. being the clean fanatic she is, this drives her absolutely crazy. "why don't you check the lottery results so you can finally throw that away!? what if you won, and you don't even know it?!?" she asks.

i kind of like the idea that i may be obscenely rich and don't know it. if i actually check the results, i will most likely find out i am a loser. i don't like to find out i am a loser.

part two

each week the 7-11 prints last weeks winning numbers on the exact same ticket paper that the live tickets use. there is usually a small stack on the counter the day after the numbers are drawn. at a glance it is nearly impossible to tell the difference between the results and a live ticket.

once a year or so, i pick up a results ticket and put it in my wallet for her to find. her frustration that i have a what appears to be a 3 month old lottery ticket in my wallet gets the best of her. she pulls it out and checks the results on the web. momentarily she believes we have won the lottery.

this prank usually results in a large bruise on my upper arm that lasts as long as a lottery ticket in my wallet, but man, is it worth it!

she believes the garbage disposal is a magical, indestructible, insatiable, portal to another dimension. a dimension she will never vist or worry about.

in repeated conversation i have told her not to put anything inorganic and/or larger than her head and/or falling under the CWC's 1992 proposal to the conference on disarmament.

she nods her head in agreement and puts the bowling ball back in the closet till i am not looking.

in the past i have extracted bottle caps, coins, rings, bones, soil, plastic grocery bags and a few plutonium rods from the disposal.

this time, as i am reconnecting the pvc tubes under the sink, i can hear the dull moan of the vacuum cleaner in another room. suddenly, the moan turns to a high pitched mechanical scream that is interrupted by a loud plastic crack noise followed by complete silence.

another interdimensional portal needs a fixin.

shit.

i love the way she mixes up and combines common phrases.

wife - "i wouldn't give him the light of day"
me - "i think you really hit the needle on the haystack"
wife - "what-ever, you know what i mean"
me - "i am the only one who knows what you mean"

from the back seat, the boys complained about the traffic jam on the parking lot known as 636. the previous day the boys had watched chitty chitty bang bang.

my wife turned to the boys and said "i bet you guys wished this car could fly like shitty shitty bang bang."

oops.

i don't think the kids caught the slip, but i now fear getting a note from the kindergarten music teacher if they ever sing that stupid song.

she told me the toilet in the master bath was making a dripping and gurgling noise and that she wanted me to take a look at it.

i went into the bathroom, sat down and listened for the noises.

ten minutes later, i told her "well, it seems to be working ok now, i put a new turd in the bowl, that seemed to do the trick."

i think she is lucky to have someone as handy as i around the house.

now that we have cats again, i have revived one of my best stupid human tricks.

surely you have been to the circus and seen the classic lion trainer head in the lion mouth trick. mine is a simple spin off of this, but in reverse.

i insert an entire cat head into my mouth.

man, she hates when i do that.

wife has identified several things about me (no need for sleep, "creepy" drawings, love of mustard and spam sandwiches, etc.) that she will eventually use in divorce court to prove my mental instability. the latest was the desire to stand freezing, scanning the sky in the middle of a cornfield at 4:30 am.

me: "i'm getting up at four a.m. to watch the leonid meteor shower"
wife:"you better set your alarm."
me: "nah, i have a little clock in my head that tells me when to get up. don't you have a clock in your head?"
wife: "yeah, it says never get up."

i love my wife for her fierce individuality and refusal to be influenced by my political rants.

i must now make my ways to the polls to offset and nulify her kooky vote.

update above is the sticker i was given immediately after voting. how did they know?...oh yeah, this is texas.

i love my wife's naivety.

we went to the sideshow of the absurd, an excellent show by pamela joseph in the MAC gallery. the show has some sexual under currents i knew the kids would never pick up on, but neither did my wife.

she took this picture of the boys (at the least sexually subtle piece) because she likes cats.

my wife returned from florida today, she brought me a severed animal head.

i am not really sure why she did, and i am not really sure i feel good about it. the gator head stares ahead with black marble eyes and open jaw. the back side is apholstered with the finest of black felt. did my wife just support and encourage the severed gator head industry?

i must admit it looks rather snazzy on the shelf next to my shellacked mexican frogs. my den is beginning to resemble that chinatown shop where mogwai/gremlins can be purchased.

i can't claim moral highground over her actions, i am guilty of purchasing large quantities of shellacked frogs posed in various traditionally human activities (standing at a bar, playing basketball, reading, etc.). very small nails ensure the frogs are securely attached to a wooden base.

i am going to toronto wednesday on business, perhaps i shall bring her back some thing. i wonder what animals those crazy canadians shellac.

yesterday, juicy green apples. today, wild raspberries. tomorrow, only my wife knows.

i have not bought shampoo since i married, nine years ago. my hair is a second class citizen in our house. my wife's flowing red locks rule. my shampoo is whatever she judges to be unsuitable for her hair.

if it has an ugly label, smells bad, causes itching, or creates open weeping soars it becomes my shampoo.

i am barred from the shampoo du jour, only the leftovers which are designated by appearing on the lower shelf in the shower. my hair often peeks at the top shelf with wonderment and jealousy my hands can never touch the top shelf shampoo.

the worst one she purchased off the internet. she picked the ingredients and named it herself. the label read "adrienne's queen b shampoo". after only two applications she deemed it not even worthy of my hair.

today is the first full day of kindergarten.

being the sensitive and caring husband i am, i reminded my wife the school was having "coffee and kleenex" in the library for weepy mothers suffering from a little separation anxiety.

"coffee and kleenex?!?!?... i'm bringing ice cream and kazoos!"

as it turns out, talk is cheap. she plowed through several gallons of coffee and a few boxes of kleenex.

she looked up from the magazine, lines in her forehead gave her a puzzled appearance. it was obvious her mind was stuttering. she starred at me for a few seconds before finally speaking.

"infinity is the highest number, ... right?"

�i shaved my head again� last night, but missed a spot in the back. i can always depend on my co-workers to point out lapses in personal grooming.

I called home, and told her to pack up the boys and the electric razor and meet me half way at burger king.

she did, and finished my haircut in the parking lot with the kids in tow.

how redneck is that!?

she also told me to jump off my wallet and get the 8 dollar special at super cuts next time. whatever.

i slide 3 well balanced meals under the dungeon door a day. sometimes with little parsley snips.

ring, ring

her on cell phone: hi
me at work: hey, what's going on?
her: i just spent a hundred dollars on underwear.
me: huh? what?
her: gotta go.

click.

i am left with many questions.

why did that warrant a phone call? has the price of underwear gone through the roof? was it one really hot pair from victoria's secret or 30 pairs of grannie grundies from wal-mart? is she planning to resell them on e-bay as worn and slightly soiled? are they for my son and i when we play intergalactic butt heads and run around wearing underwear helmets? are these replacement skivies for those marred by skid marks? edible? glow in the dark? crotchless?

ahhhhh, i still remember, years ago, early on in our relationship when her panties matched her bras.

her recent giddiness is entertaining.

she is in the midst of a 3 day streak. pro athletes like to call it "the zone" or "the groove". when your hot, your hot.

3 days ago, someone whistled at her. 2 days ago a cat call was directed at her (while driving the saturn with kid seat, no less). yesterday the grocery bagger was flirtatious.

the streak is making her feel giddy, young, and sexy. as her husband, i like to see her feel that way (although not sure how to feel about the advances).

so, if you see my wife, let her know what a hot little hoochie mamma she truly is.

go out to the mailbox in my underwear. if it is cold i will don some dark socks.

i stick my pointer finger into her mouth when she yawns.

i used to do this to my cats, they would make an "aack, aack aack" noise. then i tried it on my wife, she makes a very similar noise, but it is much more entertaining.

I often leave phone messages for myself for her to discover on the answering machine.

"griff, this is griff calling. hope all is going well. hey i saw your wife this morning... dude, i bet she is sweet in the pants. well, that's all i really had to say. smell ya later! oh, and say hi to you wife for me."

the same conversation every time we shop the "everything a dollar" store (a guilty pleasure).

"how much is this?" i will ask her, holding an item.

"how about this?" holding another item.

"and this?" holding yet another.

amazingly she always politely answers the first few times. around the seventh item she replies "every thing in this store is a fucking dollar, got it?" through gritted teeth.

mission accomplished.

of my alternate personalities designed to annoy her, "dumb guy" is the most efficient.

5 notes into the song the car radio became a mobile karaoke machine. She sang. what she lacked in quality she made up for in volume. the volume peaked with the chorus.

"i love ceceil" she sang.

being the uptight anal music fanatic i am, i stopped down the karaoke machine. i told her that the go go's were not lesbians and the lyric was actually "our lips are sealed".

head cocked and brow furrowed, she looked at me like a mental patient. she said nothing and reached for the volume knob just as the chorus came around again.

"i love ceceil" she sang louder this time.

the speech synthasizer on my mac is set to agnes. agnes reads all system messages aloud in an amusing/annoying robotic type femal voice.

my wife kept hearing the voice of agnes complaining from the den, but did not know where it was coming from. it irritated her.

"where the fuck is stephen hawking's wife? i hear her here some where." my wife said.

we were about to begin our vacation. a couple miles outside dfw airport, i noticed she was straining to look out the car window high into the sky. i asked her what was going on.

"man, what is the deal with all the airplanes out there?" was her reply.