Note? What note?

Twenty-six years of marriage bliss.  So much bliss that I've been known to make up rhymes like, "She's so cool she makes me drool" and "I love my life with my wife" ... I could probably keep going, but you get the idea.  This sorta romantic stuff just oozes out of me.  For guys, I think the creative expression of these or similar knee bucking poems, combined with a fairly consistent pattern of lowering the toilet seat when finished, can only help to cultivate a long marriage.  You see, it's building a foundation with a balance of words and action.

Knowing some of this neat-o stuff abut me, I ask then ... why, when I saw my mother-in-law last weekend, did she attempt to undermine the happily-ever-after dream marriage of her daughter?  For twenty-six years, we've received thoughtful wedding anniversary cards, Merry Christmas cards, and a stockpile of birthdays cards.  These greeting card communications from the in-laws led me to believe that ... well, that I was an acceptable enough selection for their beautiful daughter.  And that acceptance was in writing.  It left no doubt that I had my mother-in-law's blessing.

That is, until the dreaded note that was delivered last weekend ...

When my mother-in-law was performing a modern-day makeover of Carrie's old room, a 7th grade handwritten letter from one of Carrie's old boyfriends was found (Rats, and I was certain  that I burned them all).  For some reason, my mother-in-law decided she needed to return this good for only toilet paper document to my wife.  What?  Did this once pimple faced, Junior High punk just get paroled or something and he's recently single?  I mean come on now; of course that loser is still single, but was it really necessary to deliver to Carrie his poorly written, spelling error prone letter where he was attempting to win over her 7th grade affection?  And today, he's no doubt shower-less and living under a bridge somewhere.  He's a LOSER!  LOSER!  LOSER!

All kidding aside, the above is presented as extreme and is certainly not based in reality.  Yes, there was a note from an old flame delivered, but what is also true is that Carrie and I remain secure in our healthy marriage.  We can't help but grow more and more in love with each other every day.  And to set the record straight, I continue to get along just fine with my in-laws.  We had a fun time laughing and joking about this preposterous undermining scenario.  It was all very funny.  But he's still a LOSER!  ha!  Got you ... just kidding again.

Seriously though, you know what else?  if I can find that note (it got misplaced somewhere in our house), I'd be glad to show it to you.  It's really not a big deal ... and it's just silly to pretend that it's anything more than just an old piece of paper with some meaningless words on it.  That's all.  Besides, it didn't even have any rhyming words in it ... weak.

Soon after Carrie's parents left, we relaxed together and enjoyed our first wood burning fire of the season.  I'm not sure why, but seeing that fire transfer all the wood and paper products into an unrecognizable heap of ash ... so effortlessly, brought me inexplicable happiness.

And all is well in the world now.

Note?  What note?  Not sure what you're talking about.

Confessions of an Idiot

Dear Private Journal,

I did a stupid thing last night. You see, I’ve always been aware of my idiot-ness, but I’ve tried to keep it pretty close to the vest ... and I’ve been somewhat successful at it I might add. But last night, I fear that the world may soon know what my older brothers and sister have told me since birth … that I am an idiot (Fact: All youngest birth order children receive this unbiased assessment from their older siblings). I tell you for sure, it’ll start with my neighbors and then my idiot-ness legend is destined to go viral throughout the world. So, the days of my being an anonymous idiot are indeed numbered. It’s over, private journal. It’s over.

Although difficult to write, here’s how the tragic events of yesterday unfolded. I left work early because I wanted to talk with the road construction crew that was swarming our neighborhood. They were sealing the asphalt of our mile long private drive. I parked my car at the top of the hill and walked the long mile down to our house. I could not help but notice that their work was progressing quite well and that it all looked good ... really good. After our brief chat, these professionals counseled me to stay off the asphalt sealant. Excellent advice that I noted and would abide by, but I did have a simple follow up question. I had plans to go out later that night so I asked the pros if I could walk on the freshly laid sealant at that later time. They seemed overly cheerful as they granted me permission for my walk and then proceeded to pat me on the back. Friendly workers, yet in hindsight, I truly believe that this is how the “Kick Me” sign ended up on my back. That sort of stuff happens to me all the time.

My noble plan was to escort my wife down the hill when she got off of work at 10:00 PM. Sounds good, right? I figured we could enjoy a moonlight stroll together. I envisioned that we would descend the mile journey hand in hand, still in love after 26 years of marriage … and, of course, pausing from time to time for a romantic smooch or two. So, at 9:45, I grabbed a flashlight and headed out the door in all my nerdy, yet sexy accountant-ness. My pace was a bit slow as I soon noticed that my flip-flops wanted to remain on the fresh sealant surface instead of following the commands of my feet. It was getting worse. I began to wonder if those construction dudes had set me up. I got off the road where I could, but there were several stretches that would not allow relief. Onward I traveled to rescue my wife. I would not give up. I was comforted knowing that I could easily follow my footprints home should we become disoriented in the harsh 70 degree weather and clear night sky.

The damage of my wake was bad. I left one set of footprints going up the hill, and we had two sets of footprints going down the hill. I am so embarrassed. The only thing I did not do was to lie flat on my back and create a beautiful tar angel … ok, I sorta regret not doing that actually. (Yet I wonder if my neighbors will conspire together in mob like fashion to tar and feather me in tribute to my angelic actions. Let’s see here … tar angel / tar and feather … although similar, both are decidedly different.)

My fate awaits me as I write this private journal. I’m resigned to the fact that the end may be very near. In my recent Craig’s List search, I was unable to locate a viable time machine on such short notice. If I am reported as missing in the coming days, my only hope is that someone, someway and somehow, will discover this private journal and provide it to the local authorities. (Note to local authorities: You still have to find me even though I’m an idiot. It’s your job so stop reading this and find me!) Well, should my remaining time on earth come to an abrupt end and I have that glorious opportunity to meet all those for-real winged Angels in the sky, at least I will have left behind a part of me as a permanent reminder that Kevin Monroe was here.

He left his mark for all to see.  A left and a right mark ... and it’s a manly size 9.

Left, right, left, right, left …