You'd think a guy like me would wind up in hot water with my wife often enough that she wouldn't need to invent ways to put me in the doghouse. You would be wrong. Twice.


First, you'd be mistaken because my foolishness and gooferosity don't get me into trouble with the missus nearly as often as they should. She's a generous, patient, beautiful woman, with an apparently superhuman tolerance for my brand of offbeat shenanigans.


(Also, she doesn't read this site very often, which is probably a good idea. A few hundred more words of my nonsense a day might finally snap her, and she'd meet me at the door one day with divorce papers in one hand and a meat thermometer in the other.


Open up and say, 'eek'.)


Second, it wouldn't be entirely accurate to say that my wife's never surprised me with a bit of finger-pointing from way out in left field. It would be almost accurate, but not entirely accurate. Once every ten years or so, she'll find a problem in something that I would never have imagined could be an issue. Considering that she overlooks real issues of mine at a rate of thirty or so a day, I'm more than happy to deal with this once-a-decade out-of-the-blue blindsiding.


Besides, it's not like I can claim any high ground. Where she's 'mildly quirky' every ten years or so, I'm 'flailingly irrational' at least three times a week -- and I have the incriminating photos, impulse buy receipts, and telltale scars to prove it. I once bought a 'Thompson Twins' CD, for crissakes. I'm not throwing any stones here.


I will, however, tell you about the last time I found myself floundering bewildered on the jagged stones of relationship rockiness. It was several years ago -- possibly, we weren't even married yet -- but I'll never forget what I've come to call:


The Time I Endorsed the Wrong 'Squeeze' Song


We were sitting in a room together, listening to a CD. It was her 'Squeeze Singles 45 and Under disc, and it was almost over. I'd never been a huge Squeeze fan, but their songs are generally catchy and hummable, in an offbeat pop sort of way. They're no Smithereens or Talking Heads, mind you -- they're not quite even Crowded House -- but they could certainly be worse.


(They could, for instance, be the Thompson Twins. Can we just forget that I ever mentioned them?)


At any rate, the CD had nearly played itself out without either of us taking much notice. I forget what we were distracted with, exactly -- studying, or reading quietly, or knitting tea cozies, perhaps. We were awfully wild and crazy in our younger days.


(Possibly, we were even hopped up on the Old Milwaukee. That's the 'gateway beer' to Schlitz, you know. Move over, Sid and Nancy!)


As the next song started, I felt a twinge of remembrance. I'd recognized a few of the other tunes -- they were standard party fare and radio filler at the time. But this new song was one I recalled from a few years before. It was particularly catchy, and I remembered the video from MTV -- back when MTV played videos, if that tells you anything about how long ago this was. I didn't even know Squeeze played the song. Flushed with the thrill of new knowledge, I felt I should comment. Little did I know I was about to have the 'squeeze' put on me:


Me: Wow, this is Squeeze?
Her: Hrm?

Me: This song -- 'Black Coffee in Bed'. Squeeze sings this?
Her: Yeah. I guess so.

Me: You know... this must be my favorite Squeeze song.
Her: What?!

Me: Yeah, I like the tune, and the video-
Her: I can't believe you just said that.

Me: Um... said what?
Her: You like this song?

Me: Yeah.
Her: It's your favorite Squeeze song?

Me: Erm... I think so.
Her: You know it's about an affair, right?

Me: Well... I hadn't really listened to the ly-
Her: Unbelievable.

Me: But I only like the-
Her: This is typical, you know. Just typical.

Me: I had the MTV, see, and-
Her: Of all the songs they sing. Just like a man!

Me: Um... I'm sorry?
Her: Gah!


It's years later, and I'm still not quite sure what happened that day. Maybe there were 'twos' and 'twos' that I wasn't putting together, or she'd just watched exactly the wrong sort of movie on Lifetime, or something. Luckily, the black cloud didn't linger long, and I'm sure she's long forgotten about the exchange by now.


(Well, mostly sure. That girl can remember what we wore to weddings we attended in the '90s, and what I had for breakfast on the third day of our honeymoon. It's possible she'd recall the 'Squeeze incident' -- but I hope not. One bout of marital strife over a mediocre new wave pop band is quite enough. I shudder to think what might have happened if we'd been listening to A-ha.)

As a footnote, and in my defense, I submit that there was no right answer for me in that situation -- short of keeping my big mouth shut in the first place, which is often a husband's best move. But look at the other options I had, were I to choose a different 'favorite Squeeze song' from the CD:


'Goodbye Girl' -- Besides sending the wrong message, I'm not sure I could even hum the song. Certainly, I would only know two words in the lyrics, and they're not words one should be singing to one's sweetheart.


'Annie Get Your Gun' -- Three problems here. One, her name's not Annie. Two, we don't own a gun. And three, if she'd been any more upset, she might've taken the advice, anyway. No good for me.


'Tempted' -- No way. First off, it's a song that's really, obviously about an affair. Plus, I have this bad habit of singing the chorus as: 'Tempted by the fruit of your mother'. I'm pretty sure that wouldn't have helped matters any.


'Another Nail for My Heart' -- See 'three' under 'Annie Get Your Gun' above.


'Pulling Mussels From the Shell' -- Inocuous enough on the surface, familiar enough to be a favorite, and possibly the song I should have chosen. Except that I couldn't, because I can't shake the notion that the title is a sly euphemism for some sort of sloppy sexual act I'd prefer not to think about during mealtimes.


'Up the Junction' -- See 'Pulling Mussels' above.


'If I Didn't Love You' -- Another song I couldn't hum if you -- or Annie, for that matter -- put a gun to my head. Also, there's no good way to finish the title phrase that I could come up with under pressure. And 'If I didn't love you, maybe I'd be a pimp in Brooklyn' isn't going to win you any love points.



'Take Me I'm Yours' -- Probably the obvious choice, given the title and the familiar bone-jarring rhythm line. But for all I know, this song's about an affair, too. Hell, that's all these perverts seem to sing about -- that and shoving 'mussels' up your 'junction'. This Squeeze thing was a disaster waiting to happen. Can't we all just play some Men at Work and get along?

If I've learned one thing during seven-plus years of marriage, it's that honesty is very important. You should always tell the truth to your husband or wife, no matter the situation or circumstances.


Still... there's nothing that says you can't take a moment first to decide exactly what the truth is. Everything's relative, after all.


This is where my freshman philosophy class comes in so handy.


(Thank you, otherwise-worthless liberal arts education!)


You see, there have been some very smart people who have believed -- and have taken the time and effort to confirm, logically -- that there is an awful lot of uncertainty in the world. And it's this uncertainty that allows us spouses (oh, who am I kidding -- men; husbands and boyfriends and fiancees) to both tell the 'truth' and manage to avoid being beaten about the head and shoulders with a purse or high-heeled shoe.


(Or worse, those big-assed sandally clog things -- what the hell are those called? 'Lady Birkenstocks'? 'Birkenchicks'? Whatever. Anyway, those damned things are heavy! It's like getting clocked with a cinder block.)


Observe how this truth-telling thing works, gentlemen. It may save you a lot of grief. Remember, for a statement to be 'true', all we have to do is convince ourselves that it's true -- and let's face it: we're not the sharpest cheddars on the cheese tree, if you know what I mean.


So here's how I use the 'truth' to get by in my marraige. Hopefully, it'll give you some ideas on how to improve your lives, too. And away we go.


Example 1: Did 'You' Do It?


Let's say you get home one evening, before your lady friend, and find a six-pack of beer chilling in the fridge. And let's further say that you've had a hard day, and you're a bit parched, so you decide to have one. And then another. And another, until before you know it -- suds gone. The beer has disappeared. Fine.


Now, your honey gets home, and -- because she's cool like that -- she decides she's in the mood for a brewski, too. So she opens the fridge, and finds... nothing. But she knows there was just beer in there this morning. So, her next move will be to come find you, whereever you're sitting (or, by this point, passed out), and she'll say, with hands on hips:


'Hey, who drank all that beer?'


'Who drank that beer'? Who, indeed? Well, don't answer right away, fellas -- you really need to study this question in depth before you offer a response.


First, the question's not really specific about which beer 'that' beer is. Let's be fair -- she's probably got a lot of things going on. She could be talking about any beer. You can't be certain that you drank that beer, right? Even if she asks about 'that beer in the fridge' -- what's the fridge, anyway? I know a lot of fridges, frankly, and 'that' beer could be in any of them. Who's to say, really?


Furthermore, you have to ask yourself -- quickly, before she gets suspicious about what's going on that little mind of yours -- did you really drink the beer? Assuming you concede the point that the beer in question is 'that' beer -- and you don't concede that, men; this is purely hypothetical at this point -- but assuming that's the right beer, how can you really know you drank it?


Let's borrow a bit of information from philosophy (and, more recently, Hollywood) to help us out here. There's an old thought experiment that asks this question: can we really, truly be certain that we're living the life we think we're living? Meaning, is it really 'me' that looks like 'me', and goes to 'my' job, and drives 'my' car, and drank 'that' beer? Isn't it at least possible that we're all just disembodied brains in vats somewhere, being electrically stimulated in a billion different ways a second to believe that 'we' are who 'we' think 'we' are? Is there any way you could possibly disprove that, without a shadow of a doubt?


Put another, perhaps more familiar, way -- how can we know we're not in the 'Matrix', or something like it? All of us living 'our' lives, when what we're actually doing is soaking in a tub of pink goo somewhere, 'dreaming' our experiences into existence. Really, can you guarantee that's not happening? 'Cause I sure can't.


Which makes it not only sly, but absolutely truthful for me to reply to the question above by saying:


'Well, gosh, hon... I don't know who drank that beer. It's a complete mystery to me. Honest.'


I think you can see how powerful this technique can be. To thine own self be true... but only once thine own self is convinced of whatever ridiculous thing that you want thine self to believe. Pretty cool, eh? Let's try another one.


Example 2: Is It 'Really' Going to Happen?


This is an illustration of what service providers call 'managing expectations'. Let's say that you've promised to do some particularly heinous, distasteful thing. Maybe you've agreed to clean the gutters on your house, or chaffeur your sweetie on a shopping binge, or do that weird, complicated thing she likes in bed, with the tongue and the toes, and that little gadget that looks like a laser pointer with fuzzy antlers. Yes, that one.


So, of course, when you first tell your one and only that you're on board for whatever nightmarish torture you've chosen, she's excited. Giddy, even. But she's a little wary, too -- you don't usually go in for shit like this. You didn't put up nearly enough of a fight, and she's not sure you're going to follow through. You, of course, want the hell out of whatever it is, with a blazing hot passion. But you can't go back on your word. So you're stuck, right?


Well... not necessarily. This is where our old friend 'uncertainty' rides in on the white horse to rescue us again. Let's say it's been a couple of days since you signed your soul away to do this thing, whatever hellish task it is. Now your lady's checking up on you, to see whether you've gotten cold feet, and are going to try to wriggle your way out of it.


(Which, of course, you are.)


She asks, innocently enough:


'So, sweetie... you're still going to do that <insert ghoulish nastiness here> this weekend... right?'


Now, you can't pretend you didn't agree to do it, whatever it is. She heard you, and it was very clear, and she's probably got it on frigging tape, depending on how shriekingly awful a thing it is. So you've got no way out there. That way lies pouty lips and not getting laid for a month.


But remember: she's not asking whether you agreed to do it. She wants to know whether you can say -- with full certainty -- that you're going to do that thing this weekend. Well now, that's a whole other story.


Consider how much you know about what the weekend's going to hold. I daresay it's not much at all. Next to nothing, really. You don't know what the weather's going to be, certainly -- no one does, including those 'Doppler Douchebags' on the telly who try to tell you otherwise. So if the thing in question is weather-affected, all bets are way off. That's an easy one.


But if you really take a close look at it, you don't know much else about the weekend, either. Let's say it's the trip to the mall you've signed up for. Certainly, a little rain's not going to slow you down.


(Though let's be fair -- I bet bowling ball-sized hailstones, or a plague of frogs, would do the trick. But let's forget the Biblical shit for now. You can use that in a pinch, but we've got better ways out of this mess.)


Back to your level of confidence about what the weekend may bring. Can you know that you're going to do the crappy thing you said you'd do? Who's to say when your legs will spontaneously fall off, or a swarm of rabid bees will descend on your town, or the sun will be swallowed by a rogue black hole? There's no way you could predict when any of those things would -- or more importantly, wouldn't -- happen. So you're perfectly in the clear when you tell your skeptical sweetie:


'You know, I honestly have no idea whether I'll get around to doing that or not.'


Again, not a lie. And, if you're lucky, just frustrating and vague enough to get you out of it altogether. After hearing that three or four times, your wife/girlfriend/significant chickie will get the hint, and realize that you're probably not going to do the thing, after all. Expectation managed, and without resorting to non-truths. Congratulations. See how easy this is?


And I could go on and on, gents, but I think you probably get the idea by now. You don't need me to show you how to get out of going to the opera ('Can we really, exactly define what 'the opera' is? Nah.'), or cleaning up your room ('Do I honestly own the room? Can it ever be completely clean?'), or wiggling out of getting 'caught' sniffing your wife's dirty underwear ('Hey, I didn't see you buy the things, honey -- I don't know that they're 'your undies', now, do I?').


Um, yeah... okay, that last one hit a little close to home, didn't it? I think I may have given away just a bit too much information about how I spend my Sunday afternoons.


(Hey, the time between football games can be very challenging to fill. Just be glad I have a hobby, would you?)


So I'll consider this a job completed, and sign off for the night. I hope you folks have found something you can use in all of this. And when in doubt, men, just remember the one thing that's always true -- we really know nothing at all. That's pretty damned hard to argue with, isn't it, ladies?

Here's a tip for the younger gents out there, still finding their way on the rocky and treacherous road to love. This is from personal experience, mind you, so pay attention -- I hardly ever get kicked in the crotch at company picnics and fancy dinner parties any more, so I must have learned something along the way.


(Actually, I just never get invited to company outings anymore. Or any event involving cutlery, for my own protection. I still wear the protective cup to the dinner table, though. Old habits die hard.)


Anyway, here's a small piece of advice for you guys who find yourselves in the heady early days of a budding romantic relationship. It's a sure-fire way to avoid icky obligations, get out of (mild) trouble, and win a point once in a while without a chest-thumping, hair-pulling, finger-waggling fight.


(Unless that's the kind of fight you prefer. Most people like to save their chest-thumping and finger-waggling for the make-up sex. But I can't tell you how to live.)


Let's set the scene -- say you're sitting on the couch, resting comfortably in your favorite assdentation with a nice beer, watching a baseball game. And suppose your special girl breezes into the room -- radiant and glowing like a perky little angel, no doubt -- and says:


'Do you want to come to the mall with me, honey pie?'


Men, be warned. This is a trap. Most of you are way ahead of me here, but for the dumb jocks in the crowd, I'll spell it out:


There's nothing for you at the mall. Yes, there's a sporting goods store, and a place to buy CDs, and staring at the lingerie mannequins is a lot of fun. But those are not luxuries afforded to you while 'shopping with the woman'. She's asking you to be her personal bag-carrier for the next three hours. One of those bags might even be her purse. Fear the purse-holding nightmare! Fear it!


(Also, be warned that the 'sweeter' the invitation to hit the mall sounds, the more horrific the torture she's planned. 'Honey pie' is three hours of shoe shopping. 'Baby doll' involves dresses, and possibly waiting while she gets a manicure.


And if she ever calls you 'lovey sweetiekins', run. You're either in for a makeover, a castration, or she's planning to cut out a kidney and leave you in a bathtub full of ice. And you do not want a makeover.)


Clearly, you have to say 'no'. But you can't just say 'no'. Then you're the bad guy. You, who only wanted to spend a Sunday afternoon getting loaded and re-calculating David Ortiz' on-base percentage after every at-bat, would somehow be at fault for refusing to carry six Macy's bags and a pair of kicky black heels all over a godforsaken parking lot in the middle of suburban fricking nowhere. It hardly seems fair.


And indeed, it isn't fair, men. But what can we do? The deck is stacked against us. The women hold all the breasts in these negotiations; we've got very little ground to stand on. That's where the 'butiloveyou' trick comes in. Someday you'll thank me for this.


Here's what you do: look up at your lady friend. Gaze deep into her limpid pools.


(Hey, hey -- that means her eyes, sparky. Up there. If she catches you sneaking a cleavage peek, this is never going to fly. Work with me here.)


Look deep into your lover's eyes; give her your full attention. I know, I know -- Derek Jeter's up with two men out; it's very exciting. This is an investment we're making here. One at-bat, in exchange for an afternoon free of questions like, 'Do these sandals make my ankles look fat?' Focus. You can do this.


As you meet your cheery lady's gaze, try to look a little desperate. Not upset, not exasperated -- you're shooting for 'deer in headlights' here. Imagine yourself sitting in Ann Taylor with fourteen skirts and a smoking credit card. That ought to do it.


Then, just as she's about to speak, to explain the wonderful, magical treasures that await you at your local mall, look sad -- just a little sad -- and say:


'But... I love you.'


The emphasis here is very important. Hesitation, hopelessness on the 'but'. Deep, intense feeling and sincerity on the 'love'. Heavy emphasis on 'you' -- pleading, but not whiny. It's a delicate balance. But delivered correctly, it's devastating. A spontaneous, passionate, and obviously heartfelt expression of love and tenderness that your love will treasure forever. It's beautiful.


Plus, you might not have to go to the shopping mall. So it's really beautiful.


You have to be careful, though. This technique only works two, maybe three times, max. Try 'butiloveyou' after that, and you'll hear:


'Yeah, whatever, chumpy. Take my purse and warm up the car. Those Old Navy sweaters aren't gonna try themselves on.'


Also remember, 'butiloveyou' only works for little things, like trips to the mall or taking out the trash. Choose your moment. This is not going to get you out of hot water if you've blown the rent money on Lotto tickets, or accidentally mooned her grandmother.


(Yes, it's possible that an 'accidental mooning' could happen. And I've got the hung jury to prove it.)


Above all, for the love of god, don't forget who you're talking to when a 'butiloveyou' moment comes around. You never want to have this conversation at the office:


Boss: Hey, Ted's out today, so I need you to deliver his report.
You: But... I love you.

Boss: ...
You: I mean, um... *ahem*, 'report', sir?

Boss: Did you just...?
You: No. No, sir, I didn't.

Boss: Because it sounded like you did.
You: Nope. Not me.

Boss: Because that would have been very sweet.
You: Well, in that case--

Boss: And astoundingly creepy.
You: Ah. I see. Ted's report, then?

Boss: Right here. Ten am sharp. And don't call me 'snookums' in the staff meeting. People will talk.


It's powerful mojo, you see. Use it wisely, kids.

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?

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!