Do over duodecennial

A rare post by Joey...

For our twelve-year anniversary this year, I locked my wife out of our house for an hour and 30 minutes at night to be repeatedly pelted by kamikaze June bugs.

There. By publishing the above sentence, I have begun the negotiated reparations back towards marital bliss.

If you would be so kind, I will divulge a little more detail into said lockout and, in so doing, attempt to achieve exculpation and restore my relationship to you, O most understanding blog follower.

Before going too far, it would be wise to give a brief history of how we have celebrated our past wedding anniversaries. Our first, naturally, consisted of eating the top tier of our wedding cake that tasted a little like Arm and Hammer Baking Soda and frozen vegetables, along with some Sam's Choice non-alcoholic champagne. After that, our anniversaries were usually highlighted with a romantic getaway, a quixotically-charged event or purchase, or at least a shared Digiorno Frozen Pizza by candlelight. Our ten year was to be our piece de resistance, but ended in a new roof for our house. (Hope you're happy, House.) The eleventh year anniversary was EPIC, as you may be reminded here.

Now that you're all up to speed, the events of this last anniversary evening proceeded as follows: Kelly and I together had decided that what with recent trips to New Mexico and Missouri, taking additional time off for an anniversary would be superfluous, and as we are expecting (keep reading) to purchase a new air conditioner, cash flow needed to be carefully monitored. So, in keeping with this romantic spirit of practicality, I was planning to go to Wal-Mart to get some 67 watt light bulbs, milk, silly putty, etc., as well as a couple other errands. Kelly had kindly made a list for me and after I thanked her, I said goodbye but got sidetracked by reading an email. While I was at the computer, I checked Drudge and a few other sites and was surprised to hear what I thought were fireworks (keep in mind this was June 20th). I got up and went out the back door in the direction of the sound and watched the skies. Sure enough, there were some neighbors shooting off those Saturn rockets whose successive high-pitched whistles are known for clouding the thoughts of aloof husbands. This aloof husband was therefore unaware of his darling wife watering the flowers on the far opposite side of the dark yard in the shadows, and therefore, having finally remembered his errands, turned back into the house, locked the back door, and left through the garage, believing that his wife was more than likely taking a relaxing, well-deserved candlelit bubble bath, sipping a Chardonnay, and listening to Enya.

It is a well known fact that when grocery shopping, every American male will make an average of 2 calls or texts per minute, per aisle (7.5 from the feminine hygiene section), so when Kelly didn't answer any of my 34.5 calls, I could only imagine that she was thoroughly enjoying her bath.

You can imagine my surprise when, a hour and a half later (yes, it took me that long), I drove back into our driveway to find my wife sitting on the trunk of our parked car.

I thought, "She just couldn't stand waiting for me inside, and like a little kid, was watching for me from the driveway." I was just getting out of the car, proud of how little I had deviated from her list, expecting her to run up and throw her arms around me, when instead, she whisked past me towards the now open garage door, and said simply,

"You get an F minus."

I stood there, shopping bags in hands, stupefied, wondering what could possibly have happened, or who this was pretending to be my wife. I also sensed quite a lot of June bugs about.

So that's how we spent our 12th. Cancun has nothing on it! Our twelve-year picture has yet to be taken, but it will be,,, it will be.

Happy Anniversary, Dear!

(I should have waited longer than I did to tell Kelly the other back door had been unlocked the entire time.)