I was walking (falling) in Memphis

After spending an afternoon and evening in Memphis (for a story) the photographer and I decided to go eat before heading out.

We were wandering downtown, mulling our many options, when I tripped over -- well, nothing really. Maybe my own two klutzy feet?

With arms extended, I flew forward.

"Oh my God!" I heard the photographer exclaim. As in, oh my God, why is the reporter airborne?

I mean, one minute we're discussing sushi and the next minute I'm sprawled on a sidewalk.

As I landed on my hands and knees, the photographer reached down, looped his arms under my pits and hauled me to my feet.

Oh, the shame!

And the first thought to flash through my mind was, I have re-injured my shoulder and
will have to return to Hot Doctor and explain how I have managed twice in one year to fail a Superman audition.

Thankfully, I suffered only scraped hands and bruised knees.

The photographer with me was the guy who took the Barbie pictures. I've seen them, and it wasn't Ken she was boinking, but GI Joe. And whoever passes for PJ these days. More on that tomorrow. (Oh, and he said he would give me pics to post.)

Yep, that's me, domestic goddess...

... and resident s*xpot.

Note the stained T-shirt, the too-snug workout pants, the hand-on-hip pose.

Do I still have it or what?

Wordless Wednesday

(Hubs' birthday, 2007: Tootie, E-man, Hubs, Stepdaughter, Stepson. Tootie wanted more cake.)

More Wordless Wednesday here.

Once upon a time...

... there was a fluffy Persian kitty named Precious.

She belonged to a couple named Jo and Staton.

Only Jo was allowed to pet Precious. Anyone else who tried to cuddle the kitty ended up leaving Jo and Staton's house with oozing wounds.

Anytime Jo and Staton went out of town, a friend -- let's call him ... Hubs -- would drop by to feed Precious.

One evening, after Hubs had filled the kitty bowl, he realized that he had to pee.

There was a nightlight in Jo and Staton's bathroom, so Hubs didn't bother with the overhead.

He shut the door, unzipped and started his business.

Midstream, he heard a frighteningly familiar noise:

Hissssssssssss... Hahhhhhhh... Hissssssssss............

Hubs froze. He looked to the right. There, between him and the closed bathroom door stood a bristling Precious, who, according to Hubs, was clearly eying Hubs' prized dangly bits.

Frantically, Hubs zipped and edged cautiously past Precious.

He never again used the bathroom at Jo and Staton's without inspecting every nook and cranny before unzipping.

"I fed and cared for that cat for years," he recalls. "And never once did I ever pet the cat."

Pause.

"Never once did I ever want to pet the cat."

So the Hubs? Not a cat person.

Which may be why he's willing to overlook the fact that our dog has taken up residence in the dirty-laundry basket.

The ABCs of me

Having been tagged by Flutter, I'm offering brief self-descriptions via the alphabet.

Very tricky, actually, especially X and Z!

Affable (especially when tipsy)
Baby got back (and then some!)
Creative
Determined
Empathetic
Fond of cheese, carbs and chocolate
Going on seven years of marriage
Hopeful
Independent
Jokester
Klutz (which doesn't sound positive, but my clumsiness makes for great stories)
Mama
Nocturnal
Outspoken
Pasta-loving
Questioning
Rebellious
Street-smart (professionally, if not always personally)
Terrified of birds
Unreserved
Vivacious
Well-traveled
Xhausted
Yearning
Zestful

I'm tagging anyone who wants to give this a try. Only positive descriptions allowed!

I tried to put it off, I did ...

... I hemmed, hawed and stalled.

Then, last night, Tootie spent hours drawing these and taping them to the mantel.



... and I caved.



I have never put up a tree this early ...



... but here it is...



... our tree.

The other decorations also have been put up. Including the Little People Nativity Set. Last I saw, the Virgin Mary had caught a ride in the Little People fire truck. (As she does every year.)

Barbie did WHAT?!

Tonight's conversation in our household:

CATHY: So B. had a gallery opening? What photos did he decide to show?

HUBS: Well, I think they might be the ones of B-A-R-B-I-E.

CATHY: Barbie? Why are you spelling Barbie?

HUBS: [nodding meaningfully toward the little children playing on the floor]

Yeah, B-A-R-B-I-E. He did N-U-D-E-S.

CATHY: Nudes? Of Barbie? As in the doll?

HUBS: Yes. And K-E-N.

CATHY: B. took pictures of Barbie and Ken fornicating?! Why have you not mentioned this?!

HUBS: Yeah, he got the idea from some video on YouTube...blah...blah...blah...

CATHY: B. posed Barbie and Ken? Having S-E-X? And took pictures?

hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahah

I did that when I was, like, 8. (OK, maybe a little older. And I might have had the means of babymaking a little confused. I did NOT, however, take pictures.)

HUBS: Yep. He showed them to us.

CATHY: Are these color or black and white?

HUBS: *snicker* Oh, they're in color.

CATHY: Did he use his daughter's Barbies?

HUBS: Heh. That's what we asked him.

CATHY: Oh. My. God. Are you sure? He actually posed Barbie and Ken and took pictures of them having S-E-X.

HUBS: Yep.

CATHY: I-N-T-E-R-C-O-U-R-S-E or O-R-A-L?

HUBS: All of it.

CATHY: He took photos of Barbie giving Ken and B-L-O-W J-O-B?!

HUBS: Actually, it appeared to be a mutual thing.

CATHY: A 69?!!!!!!!!!!

HUBS: [nodding toward the children] SHHHHH!!!!

CATHY: I'm sorry. I'm just trying to digest this.

[Pause. Cathy reflects on this surprising information. Hubs watches football. Daughter draws Christmas trees. Son builds a castle with Legos.

CATHY: So, does B.'s wife know about this?

HUBS: I have no idea.

CATHY: I'm not sure how I would feel about walking in and finding you taking pictures of B-A-R-B-I-E and K-E-N having S-E-X. That might creep me out a little.

HUBS: Heh.

Sux to be me...

... where sports are concerned.

Let me explain:

While some tonight were gnashing their teeth and trying not to spill their bourbon, I was pausing at the gym and in the grocery store to inquire where things stood in the Arkansas/LSU game.

Not because I'm a Hog fan.

*BLASPHEMY!*

yeah, yeah, whatever

My photographer husband shoots a lot of sports. This means frequent absences during certain times of the year -- like now, right before the holidays, when I'm remembering how he had to leave on Christmas Day 2006 so that he could be in Florida to shoot a week of practices -- PRACTICES! -- before the bowl game. I rushed the Cornish hens in and out of the oven so fast, they were still squawking when I laid their neatly little trussed-up bodies on the dining room table. Because, you know, Hubs had to catch a flight.

grr.

When we lived in San Antonio, with our toddler and newborn -- TODDLER AND NEWBORN!! -- the damn Spurs just kept on winning. And I kept cussing. Because every time they played, Hubs was there, editing photos. The night the fireworks went off on our cul-de-sac -- well, I was the bitchy freak yelling, "Could you please keep it down out there?!" as people frolicked through neighborhoods. The city filled with residents unified in joy -- all except for the snarky, sleep-deprived, breastfeeding mother over on Irish Lane. I was the beeyotch of the NBA, and I held that title proudly.

So games like tonight, games that will determine which weekends of my holiday season will be ruined -- ruined, people! -- by those *splutter* unaccommodating athletes, oh, they leave me wringing my hands and drinking my own bourbon.

How would you like to plan all your visits and celebrations around the Hogs'schedule? When you're not a Hogs fan, I mean.

It was bad enough in Texas, where A&M cranks out cult members and UT trots out a longhorn and the Tech horse ends up dead when it runs into a wall during halftime -- but now I'm living in a state where people "call the hogs" at games.

They. Call. The. Hogs. Let that settle in your brain a bit before you comment.

Never, given my apathy toward sports, did I dream I would end up married to a man who shoots sports or living in a state in which people yell "Wooooo, Pig! Soooie!" with religious fervor.

So Paige, despite my Arkansas residency, I feel your pain. Hubs won't be home for hours...

Still -- check out this photo from last year's SEC Championship -- you can tell by the photo that things did not go well.



Yes, yes, very nice. But the Hubs' talents could be much better used. Take, for example, these Clinton photos. Love them. LOVE them! (That's his nephew peeking out the house with him during a tour of the boyhood home.)





Final blow of the evening? I accidentally threw away a plate of brownies after mistaking them for Hubs' leftover lumps of deer sausage. Am weepeing...

Ahhh ... carb heaven...

I'm not going to carry on too much about our glorious Thanksgiving tradition -- heading over to our friend Amy's house for a potluck dinner -- for fear that illness will strike again.'

Any gathering coordinated by Amy seems to guarantee that some strange, horrible plague will strike '

Her college graduation party: I was on my way to my parents' house, but stopped at hers on the way to partake in the festivities. While a group of us sat in the garage at Amy's Dad's house, drinking moonshine and laughing over our recently acquired wittiness, the flu was taking down Amy's sister, niece and nephew. By the time I staggered out to my car the next morning (WARNING: Moonshine. Chug it, feel the burn, pay for it later. Ugh.)

Anyway, many guests were stricken that weekend with the flu.

At Amy's recent wedding, the flower girl fell ill. Scarlet fever, it turns out. Mothers of children present at the wedding were duly notified.

And then there was last year's thanksgiving, when Amy called to tell me that several of her family members had been throwing up all evening. I hung up the phone and waited. Sure enough, E-Man followed suit.

The next night, Tootie.

So while I had gloated earlier about how little I would have to do -- fix a couple of sides and a dessert --- well, it seems there was a price to pay.

So this year, I'll just say the food was fabulous and a good time was had by all.

To anyone who has fallen ill -- my karma did nothing to yours. Leave me alone. I paid for my gloating last year by cleaning puke off the couch cushions, carpets and bed linens.

I'm going to close right now, thanking Amy profusely for another wonderful turky and party.

(Amy, if anyone get sick this year, don't tell me. I'll find out soon enough on my own, probably 5 minutes after Hubs heads to Louisiana to cover the LSU game.

If you're watching the game and happen to see a tall silver-haired man in a dark green shirt hanging around the endzone with his camera -- that's Hubs.

Me, I'm going to resume sprawling on this comfy couch. My poor digestive system is on overload today. Maybe I'll be able to lay down by midnight.

Happy Thanksgiving, all. Hope you're as stuffed as I am.

Wordless Wednesday

(Photo by Hubs)

Not a fan of the crawlspace

Shortly after moving to Arkansas, I noticed a funny little door on the side of Ex-Boyfriend's house.

"What's that for?" I asked.

In response, he opened it. There before me was a huge dark, dank earthen hole underneath his house.

"It's the crawlspace," he said. "Very common here."

NOT WHERE I COME FROM.

It creeped me out then, and it creeped me years later when Hubs and I moved into our little house -- which also boasts a cave underneath.

Ugh.

The thought of living over a hole doesn't appeal. Oh, sure, there's a liner down there, but still -- the potential for mold, insects and animal nesting really skeeves me.

And the things the previous owners did down there ... The phone wiring is totally screwed up. And our dryer? It vents down there. Hello mold.

That's Hubs' next project -- redoing the vent, which we couldn't even find until the phone company guy crawled around down there in an effort to do something about the wiring.

"Yeah, whoever lived here before has lines running up over your vent," the repairman said.

I all but lunged at him.

"YOU FOUND THE DRYER VENT?! WHERE? WHERE IS IT?!"

Who knows what else is down there?

I was complaining about the crawlspace a few days ago -- I blame the wee crawlspace door that often blows open for the giant rodent that moved in -- when a co-worker overheard.

"Oh. Crawlspaces," she said with a roll of the eyes.

Apparently, she frequently loses cats to them -- not only hers, but also those belonging to her neighbors.

L. is a kind woman who has adopted several strays. When one disappears, all the neighbors head down to their respective crawlspaces armed with flashlights.

L. has ventured down into her own on several cat-rescuing missions. Very difficult to find a cat tucked away under your house, she says. Even more difficult is retrieving a feral cat.

My friend Cindy and her husband must contend with possums that take up residence in their crawlspace.

"He's still traumatized from the last time," she says, describing the discovery of a possum carcass.

Can you imagine? Crawling under your house with a flashlight and finding a dead, rotting creature? *shudder*

So.

While I find the old houses charming and quirky, I would happily fill in that blasted, creepy hole so that I could live on top of a slab.

Where I come from, little doors don't open to your home's nether regions.

Concrete. Give me blessed, rodent-resistant concrete.

I can't help but laugh...

... when I listen to Hubs describing his chagrin on learning that our son watched Bambi on Movie Day at the daycare.

"I don't want him thinking about poor Bambi when he sees me skinning a deer," he said. "I mean, what am I going to tell him?"

Uh, maybe that the "Daddy S'getti" the E-man's so fond of is made from venison? Hell, I don't know. I'm not the hunting fanatic. (Of course, I'm not going to turn down Deer S'getti or Deer Chili either. Yum.)

But you can't have it both ways. At some point, the kids are going to find out what's in the cooler when Daddy comes back from his "trips."

And they're also going to figure out what's really in their pasta sauce.

Sheesh.

Ride along with me and the Huzzer

CATHY: Do you have to drive so close to people? You're riding that poor woman's ass.

HUBS: There's plenty of room between us.

CATHY: No there's not. If I lean forward two inches, I can see the driver's footwear. Prada. Very nice. Like the red.

HUBS: I am not riding her ass.

CATHY: No, because now you are all the way up her butt. Look, the shade of her toenails matches the shoes. Admirable color-coordination. SLOW DOWN! You are making me nervous.

HUBS: (sighs, shakes his head, keeps following too closely.)

CATHY: Look, you hate it when other people get too close to you. So why do it to them?

HUBS: There's plenty of ---

CATHY: (shrieking) She's stopping! She's stopping! Slow down!

HUBS: I am slowing down.

CATHY: You are not. That wasn't slowing down. That was slamming on the brakes because there wasn't enough space between you.

[Sunday-afternoon drive continues, with Cathy chastising and panicking, and Hubs becoming increasingly defenseless.]

CATHY: Look, would you slow down? Just because you're pissed at the other drivers doesn't mean you have to fly around them.

HUBS: Everything is fine. Let me drive. You're starting to really annoy me.

CATHY: I just want you to slow down and give people a little breathing room.

HUBS: I know what I'm doing.

As he approaches a four-way stop sign, a cop coming from another direction motions for Hubs to roll down his window.

COP: Sir, you are going too fast. Slow it down.

HUBS: Uh. OK.

CATHY: (to herself: Do not say anything. Hold back the gleeful laughter.)

HUBS: Why won't people just let me drive. Why does everyone have to tell me what to do?

CATHY: I can't imagine, honey.

To the police officer who reprimanded my husband today in the mall parking lot: I love you.

I didn't know rats came super-sized

This morning, Hubs knocked on the bathroom door.

He was jubilant.

"Come see what I caught underneath the sink."

I knew better than to look. I did.

But I couldn't resist taking a peek at whatever had been causing all the ruckus in recent weeks.

Somehow "eek" seems inadequate.

Turns out a huge mutant rat has been living with us. The thought of that ... beast ... romping through my house makes me want to never take off my shoes again. Or open the sink cabinet.

Still, ding-dong the rat is dead and all that.

Oh, and Hubs shot another buck. Quite a week for him.

Current tally: Two deer and Rambo the Rat.

p.s. Remembered this morning -- Traci was Posh, not Sporty.

Email exchange between old, long-distance friends...

... in which our vanity gets away from us:

From: Cathy
Sent: Wednesday, November 14, 2007 1:57 PM
To: Traci
Subject: Any idea when and where this photo was taken?



I'm finally going through the thousands of photos stored on our
computer. Some of them are so old, I can't remember the circumstances
behind them! Sad, I know.


On Nov 14, 2007, at 2:00 PM, Traci wrote:

I want to say Riverfest, but I can't really remember. I know it was some kind of festival down by the river and I know it was between Tootie and E-man cause I remember Tootie being there, but not the baby. Does that help? And by the way, I kindof look like I'm wearing too much makeup, don't I? What's that about?

Traci Staff Writer
-----Original Message-----
From: Cathy
Sent: Wednesday, November 14, 2007 2:11 PM
To: Traci
Subject: Re: Any idea when & where this was taken?

Just checked, and the photos following it show a toddler Tootie
eating an ice cream cone. I think it was Riverfest. I didn't even notice your makeup. I was too fixated on my weird sunglasses and how much skinnier I was back then.



From: Traci
To: Cathy
Subject:RE: Any idea when & where this was taken?
Sent: Wed, 14 Nov 2007 14:20:07 -0600

Me too. And my hair looked better too. Everyone keeps talking about how being pregnant makes your hair look better, but I'm not seeing it.Course it might have something to with the fact I get irritated far too easily to actually try to fix it anymore.
-------------------------------------
Oh, that Traci! Thick, glorious, wavy hair -- and still she complains. Traci was Sporty Spice the year we all dressed up for Halloween as the Spice Girls. I was Baby Spice. I bought a shiny, rubbery mini and lace-up top to wear as a costume. Didn't realize until AFTER the party, when I was looking at pics, that the outfit changed colors whenever (and wherever) my skin heated up. In every photo, you can see two dark silver circles caused by my breasts and two more dark circles created by my overheated ass cheeks. Those pics, unfortunately, I haven't been able to locate. Once I do, I'll post them, risking the wrath of Traci and other friends who would prefer to forget that year's shame.

Dreading the holiday shuffle

The main problem is this:

For years, my MIL was the mother of three divorced men with children. Every holiday season, she hosted Thanksgiving and Christmas, much to the relief of these single fathers.

Problem is, even though two have remarried, she still expects to play the role of matriarch presiding over the festivities -- at her house.

My in-laws currently live 3 1/2 hours away. During the year we lived in San Antonio, they were 7 1/2 hours from us.

I don't mind visiting the weekend before Christmas. But Christmas Eve and Christmas -- well, I want to spend those days at our home, cultivating our own traditions. I get the impression, however, that my in-laws are not happy with this arrangement.

I spent my childhood traveling during the Christmas holidays. I hated it. During my Santa-believing years, I worried each December that he wouldn't find us. And these were long trips. My mom's family all live in Kentucky, my dad's in east Tennessee. Usually, we traveled by car, which meant a two-day road trip on either end.

Hence my aversion to celebrating away from home.

My adamant stance has created some tense moments in the six years Hubs and I have been married.

During the two that Christmas fell on a Saturday and then a Sunday, my MIL couldn't understand why we didn't visit on the actual holiday.

Before that, in 2004, during our stint in San Antonio, I refused to go at all because I was nearly 8 months pregnant and NOT willing to sit in a car for 7 1/2 hours.

This did not exactly endear me to the in-law crowd.

The worst, however, was one of those Christmas-on-the-weekend years -- 2005, I think. Traditionally, we go to the in-laws the weekend before the holiday. That year, however, my stepkids weren't going to be with us until Christmas weekend. (They were going out of town with their mom and stepdad.)

So we shuffled everything around and told them we'd visit the weekend after. (This maneuver involved asking my parents to wait an additional week before they visited us.) Despite our efforts to placate and please, the in-laws remained upset.

Stricken with guilt, Hubs decided at the last minute to race down to their house -- the day before Christmas Eve. He took Stepdaughter and Stepson with him. I, however, refused to go. There was too much to do here -- wrapping, last-minute shopping, etc... and besides, I had no desire to be on the road Christmas Eve. I wanted to be at home, with my little ones, playing music and decorating cookies for Santa.

So Tootie, E-man and I stayed behind, while Hubs promised to be back with the older kids by 4 p.m. on Christmas Eve.

My in-laws were pissed.

When I called to wish them a merry Christmas, my FIL answered.

"Hi," I said.

Without bothering to move the phone away from his mouth, bellowed to my MIL: "Hey! You'll never guess who's on the phone!"

In a very sarcastic tone.

It was yet another awkward moment.

I hate these annual battles. It's already difficult enough to plan holiday celebrations because we are a stepfamily and have to factor in when the older kids will be with us. Making travel arrangements isn't always easy, because their mom and stepdad also are trying to make the family rounds.

My in-laws, however, can't seem to understand this. Nor do they understand my desire to be in my own house Christmas morning, watching the kids open presents under OUR tree, the one we decorated.

This year's holiday planning looms, and I am dreading it.

Thankfully, we don't have to factor my family into all the planning.

I haven't spent a Christmas at my parents' house in years. As a single reporter, I often worked the holidays, so I would head to Mom and Dad's in early January. When I married, Hubs and I simply continued this tradition.

There's no pressure from my family to get there earlier. (Turns out my parents also hated all that holiday traveling of my childhood, so they understand and have even encouraged me not to worry about what day we make it to their place.)

But Hubs' family -- oh, the resentment each year brings.

So -- how do you, dear readers, handle holiday expectations? Do you stay home? Travel? Travel but resent it?

Oh, the humiliation...

You remember how I was annoyed because Hubs and I didn't talk for 48 hours when he went on his recent hunting expedition?

Well, after coming back for a few days -- to drop off his deer at the processors and attend a Thanksgiving lunch at Tootie's school -- he headed back down to the woods this afternoon.

"Call me tonight at Grandma Hattie's house," he said as he left.

"OK," I replied.

I didn't get Tootie into bed until 8:30 p.m. Didn't eat dinner until almost 9:30 p.m. Had just settled down in front of the television, sprawled on the floor with my dog, when I heard our storm door creak open. Then someone rapped on the front door.

We don't get drop-by visitors at 10 p.m. So I immediately assumed that the two scary guys who whistled at me earlier today while driving by our house had returned ...

... because, you know, I'm so irresistible, what with the extra 30 pounds and gravity-stricken boobs.

Eek! Oh my gosh! Someone's at the door! Eeek! Eeek!

I scampered in circles around the living room, wearing nothing but an oversized softball shirt.

I'm not answering. No way am I opening the door at 10 p.m. Yikes, there's another knock! Maybe I can sneak back to the bedroom and peek out the window.

Just as I fled the living room, flapping my arms and squawking quietly to myself, a voice outside said, "Cathy?"

Wait a minute. I know that voice.

More knocking.

I opened the door and there stood Jo, a good friend of ours, who, at Hubs' frantic request, had driven over with her boyfriend Staton to see if I was OK.

Because it was almost 10 and Hubs hadn't heard from me.

He had tried to call, Jo told me, but I hadn't answered.

She laughed. "Did you guys have a fight or something."

Oh, how embarrassing.

"No," I said. "Our phone hasn't been working. I think the kids keep messing with the ringer volume. Or something."

In the midst of this explanation, the phone rang.

"Oh. Heh. That's the phone," I said.

Jo left while I stood laughing sheepishly in the doorway. Then I called Hubs.

"You sent our friends over at 10 o'clock?" I asked incredulously.

"I was worried," he said. "I hadn't heard from you."

Hmm. During the last trip, he didn't hear from me for 48 hours due to the lack of cell service and he didn't act at all worried then.

Further discussion, however, revealed that he was concerned about the deer antlers he had left drying in a tree in the backyard.

"I knew you had storms there today and I was worried the wind might have knocked them down and maybe Molly was gnawing on them."

I am, perhaps, the only woman whose husband isn't worried about whether she's been robbed or is entertaining male visitors during his absence, but rather that the dog is chewing on his precious antlers.

Hmph.

OK, OK, maybe he was a little worried about me...

Open letter to my terrified spouse

Dear Hubs:

First, I mean "dear" in a totally unsinister way. Really.

I know you do not understand why an approaching period would make someone so cranky. Why, you wonder, must this be such an ordeal every month?

I'm not even going to attempt to explain hormones and their effects. Instead, here are some pointers to help ensure your survival during this time:

1.) Do not attribute my bad mood to PMS. I know I'm in a bad mood. Even when I'm ranting at you for daring to exist, I'm thinking: Wow, I have reached a new, all-time high in irrationality. By pointing out the obvious, you will put me in a worse (read: scary) mood.

2.) Instead of inquiring when my period is due, the implication being that I am acting like an irrational beeyotch, you would be better off volunteering to feed and bathe the children while I brood over how certain people (you) have wronged me in recent days.

3.) Definition of "wronging" me:
a.) Breathing in my direction
b.) Looking at me
c.) Making any references, joking or otherwise, to S-E-X

4.) Speaking of, do NOT ask how many more days "we" have to go because you are wondering when marital relations will resume. I am already bitter about my six-day period. I do NOT need you to remind me of just how freaking long it is.

5.) Do not EVER, EVER, EVER AGAIN eat the last chocolate chip cookie.

6.) What part of SUPER ABSORBENT do you not understand? When I specify SUPER ABSORBENT, I am, indeed, requesting that you purchase industrial-strength tampons. Do not take it upon yourself to decide I might like to "try something new."

7.) MOST IMPORTANT RULE: When in doubt about what constitutes appropriate behavior (from you), simply nod and say, "You're right. I understand."

8.) Remember our friend Cindy's theory about PMS: Sufferers are not experiencing irrationality, but rather, moments of sudden clarity.

I'll sign off now so that you can process that last part.

Ever So Lovingly and With Only Good Will Toward Man,

Your Wife

No need to call child protective services

They were virgin daiquiris. Son, however, had to be toted away after he came perilously close to touching the bride's gown.

Can this marriage be saved? Depends on whether there's a dead possum within the next 24 hours.

Let's say you love to deer hunt, so much so that this really isn't a hobby, but more of an obsession.

Let's say the last time you had a conversation with your wife was, say, Friday evening, as you hurried out the door for the deer woods.

Acceptable: Calling the wife after you get to your destination.

Not acceptable: Calling periodically over a 48-hour period and leaving messages for your wife on voicemail. Because you refuse to use a landline, even though numerous phones are available at various relatives' homes, your messages -- delivered from an area with virtually no cell service -- are barely understandable.

"Hey! It's [crackle, buzz, static] me! Got a [crackle] 7-point this [buzz] morning! Going [static] back out this evening. Bye!"

"Hey, [crackle, static, buzz], it's me! Saw two doe today [crackle] Going back out [buzz] this [static] evening! Bye!"

Let's just say your wife is at home with two children who are both suffering from nasty head colds. Between them, they've produced 12 gallons of snot and are not sleeping well at night due to hacking coughs. Your wife also is not sleeping well because when she's not tending to the children, she's up at 2 a.m. Googling "whooping cough" and "TB." Or she's listening to a large animal scuttle through the attic.

If these are the circumstances, you should not be surprised to call home and get the following greeting on voicemail:

"Hubs, if this is you, call me on a damn landline. Your cell phone isn't working. If this is anyone else, please leave a message and I'll call you back."

Tonight, for the first time in said 48-hour period, I had a real, live two-way conversation with The Deer Hunter. It went something like this:

"So today I saw one doe and --"

"Honey, just a bit of context: I'm at home with two sick children and a wild animal is throwing nightly frat parties in our attic. I DON'T CARE HOW MANY DOES YOU SAW IN THE DEER WOODS! They're DEER WOODS! That means there are DEER! DUH! So enough about the damn does. Let's talk about the Bud-swigging raccoon hanging out over our bedroom."

"The kids are sick?"

"Grr."

"What animal?"

(Lengthy description of children's illness and the competing racket from our mouse-turned-rat-turned-raccoon-or-gasp!-possum ensues.)

"Oh. Well, here's what I would do. Just pull down the trapdoor to the attic and leave it open for awhile so whatever it is can hear people beneath it. That'll scare it away. Or you could go up there and turn on the light, maybe hang out up there and yell a little."

hahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!! ---

"Are you fucking kidding me? Why don't I just invite it down for tea and crumpets on the off-chance that it's not carnivorous?"

"Oh. So I guess we won't be having sex first thing when I walk through the door?"

Click.