My refrigerator has become 'The Place Where Leftovers Go to Die'.


It's been a gradual progression from 'icebox full of fresh tasty food' to 'air-conditioned coffin for last week's takeout moo shu'. Partly, it's because my wife and I aren't home for many meals, because of our busy schedules. Also, when we are home, we have this quirky preference not to eat the same damned fried rice or soggy pizza for six nights in a row.


Mostly, though, it's because we're both waiting for the other to finish the last of the leftovers. Neither of us wants to rudely hog the last dregs of edible food in the house. It's a little game we play. And we're very stubborn. And very patient.


Right now, a chess match is developing over half a garden salad sitting in the fridge. I bought it last night, along with some pasta, and we shared it for dinner. There was a bit left over -- but not quite enough for two. So, I left it for my wife and fended for dinner elsewhere -- because chivalry is not dead. Not in my kitchen.


(Also, there's only so much nasty rabbit food a man can eat in one twenty-four hour period without the benefit of beer, hot sauce, or some sort of crispy-fried dead animal. Having none of those, I left the lettuce for the lady of the house. Chicks dig the veggies, you know.)


She came home tonight and took the bait leftovers, as planned. Except she left a big honking wad of salad hanging out in the fridge. I told her she was welcome to finish it. She told me she couldn't possibly. I insisted. She ignored me.


Game on, baby.


Now it's my turn. Over the next few days, I'll eat dinners out, bring dinners home, fix myself sandwiches, and generally act as though the salad in the fridge doesn't actually exist. Meanwhile, my wife will be doing the same. We'll dance this foodless fandango until one of us breaks down and eats the stupid salad, or until it morphs into something unrecognizable, moldy, and possibly oozing -- at which point it goes in the trash. Either way, whoever touches the leftovers last loses. The goal of the game is to take the next-to-last portion, then hide behind 'being polite' to deny any responsibility for the final scraps of food.


Over the years, we've had some legendary matches. There was a half a can of olives that sat in our fridge for three years before I finally gave in, put on a hazmat suit, and disposed of them. Then there was the order of cheesy bread that occupied a shelf on the refrigerator door until they were but shriveled and petrified shadows of their former selves. I won that round when my wife turned to me and asked, 'When did we buy beef jerky, anyway?' Luckily, she asked before she tried eating one, or we'd have both been in big trouble.


I have the utmost confidence that I'll win this current 'salad round'. I have a very good record with vegetable-related leftovers, and particularly those in clear plastic containers, like this one happens to be. If the missus has a weakness in this game, it's that she can't stand to watch the food deteriorate. Her specialty is cans and jars; I haven't won a 'screw-top battle' for years. The closest I got was the 'draw' we called on a dubious-looking jar of jelly that was nearly old enough to vote. That was an epic.


But salad? Fuggedaboutit. It's in the bag. I just hope she gives in and eats it, rather than trying to wait me out. Those hazmat suits are expensive as hell to rent.

So. It's another new year. And as the curtain opens on another jaunt around the sun, thoughts turn to a subject treasured by many of us, at least for a few days every January: New Years resolutions.


I made some resolutions this year. At least, I tried to. For the past decade or so, my wife has assumed veto power over my prospective resolutions. It's for my own good, really -- there was some unpleasantness a few years ago. Apparently, 'finally sticking it to the man' isn't an appropriate goal for the year. Not if your definition of 'sticking it' involves fire hoses and flaming bags of horse poop, anyway.


So these days, I run my resolutions past the boss. And she has little patience for any New Years nonsense.


You can imagine how badly this goes.


This year, I decided I'd resolve to grow dimples.


She wasn't having any of it. "Dimples? You can't just grow dimples."


I begged to differ. With a good screwdriver and a little patience, I could totally give myself dimples. It worked fine back in grade school, when little Tommy Donovan wanted us to turn his 'outie' into an 'innie'. And he's doing just fine without a spleen. It's completely safe.


Vetoed.


My wife tried to soften the blow with a redirect:


"Why don't you resolve to better yourself somehow? Take a class, or lose weight, or emulate a personal hero or something."


"Those all seem like very reasonable ide- hey, did you just call me fat?"


"Well, who couldn't stand to lose a few pounds after the holidays?"


"Good point. I'll get the screwdriver; how much do you think a spleen weighs, anyway?"


She talked me out of that idea, too. What's the point of owning screwdrivers if you never get to use them? Sheesh.


Gently, she steered me back to the 'hero' idea. I'm sure she was hoping I'd resolve to be more like Ghandi or Martin Luther King or that guy on Blues Clues who seems to get along with everybody. She's so cute when she's optimistic:


"So name a hero you could emulate."


"I dunno. Ozzy Osbourne?"


"Try again."


"Eric Cartman?"


"Lord, no."


"Ford?"


"Gerald, or Henry?"


"Prefect."


"Maybe we should try something else."


Finally, she suggested that I might resolve to better the world around me. But she didn't like any of those ideas, either. I don't think she's very philanthropic, when you get right down to it. Still, I tried:


"All that driving to work uses up a lot of gas. I could stop doing that."


"You mean, start taking the bus?"


"No, I mean stop going to work."


"Not a chance."


"I could poop in the yard, to save on fertilizer."


"We don't use fertilizer."


"But we could. I bet I'm chock full of phosphates."


"No doubt. You're still not pooping in the yard."


"I can't believe you'd waste all these phospates. Why do you hate Mother Earth so?"


"Look, I give up. Resolve whatever you want. I'm going to bed."


So in the end, she was no real help. All those good ideas, shot down with vetos until she finally gave up. And now I can resolve whatever my little heart desires.


Looks like it's back to fire hoses and horse poop. "The man" better watch his back in '07, baby. It's shaping up to be a good year.

If my wife ever divorces me, it'll be because of soap. Or more precisely, the lack thereof.


And just to get it out of the way now, I don't mean that in a 'he doesn't use soap; I'm trapped in a smelly marriage!' kind of way.


Any filthiness I have is all in my head. Otherwise, I'm squeaky clean. Honest. I even floss my toes.


Besides, not bathing would be a Big Thing. Nobody ever gets divorced over Big Things, because you can't hide Big Things coming into a relationship. By the time the nuptials roll around, both parties know all about the Big Things -- he has a gambling problem, maybe, or she's a compulsive shopper. Maybe he's homeless and sings 'Oklahoma' during sex, and she's an ex-con turned Jehovah's Witness. She's got three nipples and a vestigial tail, and the phrase, 'can you hear me now?' sends him into an uncontrollable murderous rage. Now there's a lovely couple. I always wondered when those crazy kids would get together.


The point is, all the Big Thing baggage gets handled early on. Or it doesn't, and 'early on' is all there is before the messy breakup. But once you've been married for a while, you've been coping with Big Things for so long, it's become second nature.


(For the record, my wife doesn't have any Big Things for me to deal with. Trust me, I looked.


Unless you count not letting me wear jeans to weddings and fancy restaurants. But somehow, I think that's another one of my Big Things, rather than hers.


Or so she tells me.)


So, all that's left are the Little Things, those daily annoyances and quirks and borderline personality disorders that drive your partner to consider renting a wood chipper and going all Fargo on your ass. That's where my Little Thing with the soap comes in.


I have a mental block involving soap in the shower. When I use the last of the soap, I fail -- consistently, predictably, and infallibly -- to replace said soap. In the shower, I make a mental note: 'Replace the soap'. Three minutes later, it's gone. Completely. Shut the water off -- nothing. Towel myself down -- still forgotten. Shave, dress, brush my teeth -- 'I have no recollection of that mental note, Senator.' It's simply gone.


Which leaves my wife -- my poor, long-suffering wife -- to hop into the shower the next morning, soak under the water for a bit... and then climb back out, drippy and annoyed, to find a bar of damned soap. Frankly, I'm surprised she hasn't stuffed a pillowcase full of Ivory Spring and beaten me with it by now. It's a hell of a way to die, but at least I'd be fragrant at the funeral.


For some reason, I can't shake this soapy monkey off my back. The missus and I have had other Little Things, and they've all been fixed. We've both been guilty of not replacing an empty toilet paper roll. For a while, she refused to follow proper ice tray filling protocol. And once -- once! -- I left the toilet seat up. That was many years ao. I still have the flashbacks.


Probably, there are other Little Things I'm forgetting. I'm sure forgetting the soap can't be my only annoying habit. But it's the one that's lasted the longest, with no sign of abating. So if I'm ever served 'the papers', that'll be near the top of the 'Reasons for Divorce' list, I'm sure.


Right after the third nipple and the 'Oklahoma' thing. Can you hear me now?

So, I'm old now. I turned thirty-five a while back, which means the ride's pretty much winding down, right? A couple of years watching Matlock and listening to Lawrence Welk, and then it's all over. That's okay -- it's been pretty much downhill since... well, since... hrm. Come to think of it, I don't remember any 'uphill' to speak of. I imagine the whole breastfeeding thing was probably pretty sweet, but I don't recall any of that. And it's a little creepy to think about at this point, so that's probably okay.


Anyway, the most important thing for me in my 'twilight years' is that I don't forget anything else. I never knew all that much to begin with; I can't afford to lose any of the few facts I've managed to pound into my neurons. So, I've got to try to stay sharp, keep the old brain from mushing up.


To that end, I've recruited my wife to help. We've set up a system to help each other keep our minds fresh. Not that she has to worry about getting old, of course. She'll be twenty-three for the next thirty years. Or so she tells me. Maybe her math skills are already deteriorating -- I don't dare to ask.


At any rate, we've decided to keep our thinkers in top shape with some random quizzing. When we run into each other -- in the kitchen, on the couch, in the shower, whereever -- we'll toss out a question or two, to keep the gray matter wiggling. So, for instance, I might see her making the bed, and ask:


'Quick! What's the capital of Morocco?'


And then she'll think for a bit, and come up with an answer. Unfortunately, I don't actually know what the capital of Morocco is, so I can't tell her whether she's right. Not exactly ideal. So, I try and ask easier ones, that I can get right myself. Like 'what comes after Tuesday?', or 'what's the dog's name?'. Or, even better:


'Hey -- name a sexual position involving cheese!'


(No? Don't know that one? I'll give you a minute.)


(Still scratching your noggin? I was looking for 'The Flying Dutchman'. The judges would have also accepted 'Gouda Vibrations', 'Madam, I'm Edam', or 'Camembert-ly Legal'. Rawr.)


Of course, the questions I get back are a little different. First of all, my wife is exceptionally intelligent. So, at first, she was asking me to take the square root of some big number or other, or translate some gibberish from French or Japanese or Sanskrit, or to spell some ridiculous word with nineteen letters and a silent 'v'. Eventually, when those questions left me stunned and drooling, she dumbed them down for me. So that works out. Sometimes.


The other problem is that I'm a guy. Thirty-something. Sports fan. Lazy. Not so terribly bright. So, often her quizzing strategy changes a bit. She'll see me lying on the couch, watching TV, and ask:


'Are you going to waste the whole day like that?'


(Easy one. 'Yes. Yes, I am.' Duh.)


Or maybe: 'When are you going to make something of yourself?'


(Uhhhhhh. Damn. That's a toughie. Pass.)


How about: 'What happened to the man I married?'


(Jeez, another head-scratcher. Lessee... How about, 'he discovered the joy of Chee-tos and beer'. Is it 'discovered Chee-tos and beer'? Honey? Hello? What's the right answer?)


Meh. Maybe it's better my mind should go soft. At least then I won't remember missing all those questions. Sweet dementia, here I come!

Yesterday, the missus went to the grocery store. As is her custom, she asked before she left: 'Is there anything special you want me to get?'


She asks because she's nice like that. Sweet girl.


And I never take her up on the offer, because... well, because clearly, I can't.


See, if you've ever been tangled in the web of wedlock, then you know that there's only one important rule to remember about being married. And if you haven't been married, then listen up, dammit. This is good shit, and it'll save you a lot of time sleeping on the couch later on. Here's all you really need to know:


Charlie's First Rule of Marriage: 'At all times, keep the points as even as possible.'


All couples have a point system. Maybe they don't talk about it, or even consciously think about tallying up points, per se, but the system is still there. Each person instinctively 'knows' whether they're ahead or behind in the game, and roughly how many points up or down they are. If you're a guy, then it's almost certainly 'down', and so you need to know how to catch up. But the rules are the same on both sides of the gender coin.


It's very simple, really. Little things bag you a few points. Doing the dishes, or taking out the trash. Not making that face when your spouse mentions your mother-in-law. Yeah, you know the face -- like you've just eaten a cat turd stuffed with lemon rind and used jock straps. That one.


Bigger things get you more points. Buying gifts for no reason, for instance -- but it really has to be for no reason, or you'll be in even bigger trouble. Making a nice dinner would work, too. Surprise parties, that kind of thing. You get the idea.


The key is, 'know' where you're at in the relationship, and make sure the points even out. I've put know in quotes twice now, because -- as we've all seen -- some people have no clue about their point totals. Which invariably means they're deep, deep, deep in the hole when they believe they're not. This is the sort of situation that leads to disagreements. Sometimes involving shouting, or thrown dinner plates, or people with the surname 'Bobbitt'.


To avoid such unpleasantness, I always assume that my wife has many more points than I do. The fact that she actually does doesn't really enter into it -- all I need to know is that I'm lagging behind. Which is why, normally, I cannot make a 'special request' from the grocery store. She's already shopping for us -- now I'm making specific demands? No. I don't think so.


Sometimes I forget myself, though. Yesterday was one of those sometimes. Who knows what happened -- maybe I made the bed, or remembered an anniversary, or actually threw my dirty boxers into the laundry basket instead of on her toothbrush, as usual. Whatever it was, I was apparently giddy and reckless, because I did make a food request when asked. A small one. I'm not one to press my luck, underpantsed toothbrush or no.


I asked for lunchmeat. A specific kind -- strips of chicken in a little package, seasoned with lemon and pepper. We've had it before. It's tasty, it's savory, and it makes plain old bologna taste like week-old ass sweat on cardboard. Okay, 'more like'. If that's possible.


The request hung out there in the air for a bit. It's not a common occurence, and we just stood there for a moment, blinking at each other and wondering what would happen next. Then my wife, secure in her enormous hoard of points, said, 'Okay, sure', and she left.


An hour later, she came back. Bags of groceries, she had. Bags and bags and bags. Milk? Check. Lettuce? Yup. Secret brand underarm antiperspirant? Gotcha. The lunchmeat, with the lemony peppered strips of chickeny goodness? No. What happened, I asked. Her answer:


'Oh. Sorry, I forgot.'


Now, that's just flaunting, dammit. She is so far ahead in the points -- and worse, knows she's ahead -- that she can lose a few by forgetting the lemony pepper chicken things. Which is fine -- we all forget things, now and then. I completely understand that.


But then she told me she forgot! That's just not right. I mean, she could easily have lied, for the sake of points, right? Like:


'Oooh, honey, I looked all over, but I couldn't find them. Sorry!'


Or: 'You know, the store had them, but they were all past the date. You don't want chicken that went bad last October, do you?'


Or even: 'They weren't in the bag? I know I bought them -- you know, maybe the bagger swiped them at the checkout counter. I thought he was just scratching himself, but it's possible he stuffed your lemony chicken down his pants. Ouch.'


And I'd believe those things, too! Not because they're particularly plausible (they're not), or that I'm so gullible (I am), but I have to believe what my wife tells me -- she's got all the points. If I call her on something and get proven wrong, I'm just that much further behind. Better to take everything she says at face value at this point. It's just easier.


Still, I don't appreciate not being lied to. Isn't pretending you remembered things what marriage is all about? It all goes back to making the points even out. And she lost a few yesterday, let me tell you. I don't care how far behind I am -- I am so flinging my undies on her toothbrush in the morning. That'll learn her. And I bet they taste like chicken. Delicious lemony pepper chicken!