Valentine's Ramblings: or My Wife is Trying to Kill Me.

I like it when my wife laughs at my jokes. She did it all the time when we were dating. She did it when we were newlyweds. But somehow it seems she doesn't laugh as much at my jokes anymore. I'm lucky to get a smile. I know my wit is about a half step behind what it used to be as neural pathways are closing down (see last entry "So you say it's my birthday"). But I think the real problem is she isn't impressed by me anymore. It's not that familiarity breeds contempt, it's just that familiarity breeds…well, familiarity.

Or maybe it does breed contempt. I think the woman may be trying to kill me. I know, I know, you look at her sweet little facebook profile picture and you think, "Who? Her? No way!" But hear me out. I think she is intentionally leaving the cabinet door under our bathroom sink open at night. I suppose you think me mad at this point, but madmen know nothing. I am rational. Let me but explain the genius behind her modus operandi for my demise and you will see. I only ask that if there is a sudden funeral you use my Facebook page as evidence.

Michelle (our baby) still sleeps in a bassinet in our room. So if I have to get up in the middle of the night to make the long trek of about twelve feet to our bathroom, it must be done in the darkest night so as "not to wake the baby." A nightly trip, I might add, that I am having to make more and more frequently (again, see last note "So you say it's my birthday"). Okay so maybe it isn't age so much as my ability to suck down a two liter of diet pop in the evening isn't conducive to an uninterrupted night of sleep. FACT: She buys the pop. Sometimes. Well, mostly I do. BUT she knows I do.

So in pitch black as dark as the deed, I stumble into the bathroom confident of speedy business and a quick return to slumber. But it is not to be. In drowsy haste I feel along for the doorway trim, enter the convenience and run SMACK right into that cabinet door. Man, does that hurt! You should have the coroner check for contusions on my shins. FACT: The little hobbit safely tucked away in the covers she stole from me in the night often leaves the right cabinet door open. If it were the other side left open then I would simply kick it closed. But as it is the right side she leaves fully open, it stands its ground against my weight so that I trip on it. On the other side of that barricade is the toilet and the tub. The aerodynamics of a bathroom fall would land me face first in the bathtub. I have sorted out the possibility of leaving the tub filled at night. But have pretty much discarded the idea because then she might just leave the cabinet door open if she thought I needed a bath. But I digress.

FACT: She is a female. She knows that 70% of accidents at home occur in the bathroom (that's a line just begging for quip). And with over 200,000 incidents a year in the United States, successful completion of her scheme would most likely be officially ruled as just another mishap in the john. Plus, I believe her feminine mind has deduced that should I trip into the bathtub the cleanup will be minimal. Unless the tub is full; then we will need lots of towels.

To date, I have, through pure innate athleticism and nimbleness, thwarted her carefully laid plans and have returned to my cool blanket-less side of the bed with throbbing leg but whole in body. And, as for her? Not an indication or sign from her side of the bed except for a slight shaking under the mound of blankets and the muffled sound of her stirring in the night. Or is that a giggle? I think she could be chuckling under there. Maybe I still make her laugh after all. But I'm thinking I'm going to have to give up the carbonated nightcaps. Comedy is more painful than it used to be. My shins can't take it.