I said she was butch, sure. But, context is important. We were talking about people we know that are attractive. I said a name. She said, “She’s a bit butch.” And I said, “Ya, but I like butch. You’re sorta butch.” I was giving her a compliment. She didn’t take it that way. In my defence, a few days later, I said something smart-assed and she asked if I wanted a chop to the trachea.
“Did you just threaten to give me a karate chop to my wind pipe?”
“That’s right.”
“And you’re going to argue with me that you’re a little butch.”
It took me a week, but I won that argument. Although any ground I gained, I lost when I told her my love increased for her twelve to thirteen percent.
Do you ever forget to put the sheets back on the bed until right before bed time? I hate that. You’re all geared up to climb in to a comfy bed and let the days troubles ease away, and the naked bed mocks you.
That’s what happened. We forgot to make the bed. The sheets were upstairs in a pile, and I was dreading that one last chore. I bitched about it as I trudged up the stairs to our room. But when I walked in and saw that she had made the bed without a word as a nice surprise, I looked at her and said, “My love for you just increased twelve to thirteen percent.” She wasn’t impressed.
I argued that she should be. Increasing our love, grown over our 9 year history, in one instant, 12 to 13 percent, is impressive. I mean, she didn’t give me a kidney, she just made the bed. I figured I had been pretty generous. She’s an accountant, she appreciates numbers, she saw my point. Still, I was getting in a habit of digging myself into holes. So when I brought up the blue cheese I was already in trouble.
We were hanging out, and I said I loved her, and she asked, “How much?” Yes, dorky, and sickly sweet, but we were by ourselves, and this is a game we like to play. Don’t judge. I try to stay away from the standards, I try stretch a bit, and this time I said, “I’d give up blue cheese for you.”
“Blue cheese! You’d give up mold for me! Nice.”
“But blue cheese is so awesome.”
She wasn’t buying it. The word “mold” was used repeatedly. It seemed to me she was concentrating on the wrong details. The point was that I loved blue cheese and I offered to give it up for her.
“But blue cheese! Moldy stinky cheese! Why not chocolate?! If you asked me, I’d say chocolate.”
Well now we were just arguing the relative merits of different foods. It’s the sincerity of the offer that makes a difference. And when I made it, my offer was genuine, hers was not. When pressed she admitted her giving up chocolate was unlikely.
“See, that’s the difference. I meant it.”
“So you’re going to give up blue cheese for me? To prove you love me?”
“Well not now. You’ve ruined it.”
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There is more to your reproductive system than your vagina. That is the title of a chapter in a fertility book I flipped through today at 
I have a poor memory for details, which is a polite way of saying I am both unobservant and forgetful. My wife recalls things I rarely do, or never noticed in the first place. This frustrates her. We often have conversations she begins by saying, “Remember when…” but, or course, I don’t, so they end with, “It’s a wonder you find your way home at the end of the day.”
My wife and I are out with friends at a crowded pub. We share a large table with a group seated at the other end. Sitting across from me is a woman that reminds me of Penelope Cruz. She is petite with delicate Latin features and smooth skin. Her top plunges below a diminutive bust line to reveal the lace edges of her bra, which she manages to make look sexy and elegant. She is extravagantly beautiful.
It’s good to push boundaries. It helps you grow and experience new things, and sometimes it reinforces why there are boundaries in the first place.
Michelle: That’s not nice! Don’t call me retarded.