Yes, Babe.

Well, if anyone has read the comments under my last post, the cat is out of the bag. The first poster (ucicu2), who I know quite well, mentioned notifying my 'Boss Lady' if I didn't take it easy on the sauce. That is correct folks, I have a very significant other. I am married to a wonderful woman who has enough patience and understanding to put up with this here pain in the arse. Those two qualities alone make her a catch, but she is hot as hell to boot! On top of all of that good fortune, she has seen fit to give me two rooms in the house. I have the garage and the little room I am typing from. (No, it's not a closet so shut up). She does make me keep the door closed so her friends won't see the stacks of books, strewn wires, tools, disassembled electronic gear and empties. To a person of a hyper-curious nature, these are rooms of invaluable treasure and endless entertainment (well to me they are anyway). The hot glue gun alone has kept me amused for a couple of hours by itself. No, I wasn't sniffing it – she makes me close the door. Remember?

Marriage has taught me many lessons along the way and a few hard fast rules that were quickly learned when periods of forced abstinence were used as a battle tactic. Calloused hands just ain't the same, Jr.. And life isn't always fair, suck it up and drive on; you have to set your priorities. I got mine straight and I plan on using it as often as possible...

The phrase, “Yes, babe” at times becomes the only acceptable answer. I have one perfect example to put this is perspective. I have recently put a bit of tile down on the back porch area for the Mrs.. After grouting said tile, it was time to scrub off the grout haze and clean the tile so it could be sealed. So I say to myself, “The hell with getting back down there on my knees and scrubbing all that tile. I will just sweep it and go rent me one of those floor buffer/scrubbers from the Depot.” After checking prices and weighing the cost vs. reward ratio, I hop in the car and shoot on over to pick it up. My wife, being the hard working type, informed me she planned to use the buffer, when I was finished, to scrub the tile in the kitchen. I had to pay for a minimum of four hours anyway, so it sounded like we had a plan. I told her she should be able to knock out the kitchen in less than an hour cause it's much easier with the buffer and a scrubbing pad to get at the embedded dirt.

I returned home and promptly got to work. I knocked out my scrubbing in the back and wrapped the cord back around the handle. I pulled the beast back in the house and yelled to the wife that her buffer was in the kitchen. I used the buffer for about 2 hours and so while my little lady worked on the kitchen, I figured I would have time to head back outside and give the tile a lite pressure washing before sealing it.

Alarms should have sounded and lights should have flashed when she came out and said she couldn't get the buffer to start. Being in the middle of another job, I quickly explained that she had to press the safety release button on the side while holding either the right or left handle switch closed and I went back to work. She nodded that she understood and be bopped back into the house. Within five minutes she was back outside, hands on her hips and a dire look in her eye. Uh oh. I figured I better shut the pressure washer down and give her my full attention. Upon doing so, this my ringing ears did hear, “You told me that thing was easy to use. You said all I had to do was press the safety button and squeeze the handle and it would work!” AMBUSH!

Internal dialog: “O.K. this is your back yard. Your closest exit is immediately to your right and 3 paces away. She isn't carrying any sharp objects this time, so if you feint to your left and then shoot right for the exit you just might make it.” But then I remembered I had to come back home at some point so I would remain, warily, where I stood. “Stand your ground men. Rig for heavy seas and the smoking lamp is very obviously lit!” I answered with a practiced neutral look and a noncommittal “Uh, huh.” The conversation continued thusly:

“Well it wasn't easy. I started it and it shot across the floor and broke the pantry door. Then it bounced over and broke the leg off of the kitchen table. I tried to stop it but it wouldn't shut off. YOU said it was easy!”

Confused I asked, “What do you mean it wouldn't shut off? All you have to do is let go of the handle.”

“I did let go of the handle. It wouldn't shut off and it wouldn't stop running into things. I had to unplug it to get it to stop!”

“What are you talking about? You aren't making any sense.”

I stomped inside and found mayhem and destruction. I also found the reason the buffer wouldn't shut off. She had only unwrapped half of the cord from one side of the handle. The other portion was firmly noosed around the other “go” handle. I turned around to explain this, with a couple of witty and sarcastic comments for spice, only to find that she had turned the waterworks on. Damn it. What kind of man is going to berate his woman when she is all teared up. “You said it was easy!” she said again. I could have fought this one out and won. "Remember," my brain said (probably the lower one mouthing off). "pick your battles and keep your priorities straight and you won't be having to lock yourself in the bathroom with Victoria and her Secrets nearly as often."

Standing there I began to picture what this fiasco must have looked like and I couldn't help but laugh out loud. After my fit of mirth, I grinned and answered “Yes, baby.” After a moment, she too smiled a little, and all was right in the world. Well, except for the closet and the table leg. I fixed the closet, repaired the kitchen table and in the interim I had somehow jumped up into the “sweetest man in the world” category. So you see, you get lemons you make hot and steamy... lemonade. What did you think I was going to say?

No, I am not telling you if I got any you pervert.

Talk to ya soon.