It's almost midnight . . .

so I guess that means it's about time for my nightly post. Things went pretty much the way I expected. First of all, I worked on that stupid-ass midterm for a while today. Well, I thought about it intermittently throughout the day, anyway. I only actually worked on it for about two hours or so. My wife gets home about 5:00, wishes me a happy anniversary then wanders off into the house. I sit at the computer until about a quarter til six, when I realize that my daughter has softball practice in fifteen minutes. I scramble around the house, trying to find something for me to wear, barking orders at her regarding what she needs to wear, and get out the door about five til six. Upon arriving, I realize what a complete timewaste it was, as I looked around at the two other girls and their parents who decided they too should attend practice. That's out of eleven girls. Even the coach's daughter didn't make it, though the coach herself did. Luckily, it only lasted a little over an hour, and I was able to get back to my house and out of the cold.

Back at my place, my wife is standing against the kitchen counter, looking as if I had pissed the bed last night. She doesn't say anything--she just looks at me in that way that women do when something's wrong and they want you to ask them what it could possibly be, though you really don't want to. However, my survival instincts kick in, and I avoid her icy stare and make my way into the living room to catch the tip-off of the Mavs-Cavs game. However, the she-lion is relentless, circling the couch, creeping ever closer to her seemingly unaware prey. As she begins to pounce, I move with surprising quickness (all the while determined not to make eye contact) to my left, circling the couch myself and escaping to the confines of the kitchen where I make a nice cool glass of water. After refreshing myself, I turn and consider my route options. I glance furtively into the living room, prepared to avoid the imminent danger of such close contact. The danger appears to have disappeared. I resume my position on the couch, remote firmly in my right hand, when I finally hear the most dreadful sound known to man.

Yes, the sniffles. There may be nothing on earth more ugly than a crying woman--and you can quote me on that.

I take a deep breath and roll my eyes, preparing for the brutal attack. And, just as I anticipated, it was soon upon me:
"It's our anniversary, and you don't even act like you want to spend time with me." Another sniffle. Another deep breath and I complete a full eye roll, complete with head tilt.
"What are you talking about?" I respond, immediately beaten-down by the turn this conversation has taken.
"Well, I came home and told you that I loved you and gave you a hug and you just sat there," she growls back.
"I was doing homework," I reply. "Plus I had to get ready for practice."
"Still, though, it's not like it's Valentine's Day. It's our anniversary. And I didn't really expect much."
"What did you want me to do?" I asked. "Whirl you off your feet to go spend a night in some fancy hotel or something?"
"Nothing like that," she says, rather depressed (and still sniffling, I might add). "'Cause you don't do stuff like that. It's not in your nature."
"Then why in the hell do you think I would do that, then?" I say jokingly, as I give her the hug that should make everything okay. "I'm sorry you're such a miserable little wife."

Then she fixes me a couple of sandwiches and brings me some dessert as I watch the rest of the Mavs game (they come back from nineteen points to win). And that pretty much sums up my anniversary. And to think that some people claim that after a few years the thrill is gone. Nonsense.