Um, what?

Last night, Wendy and I were having one of those deep, philosophical conversations that loving couples have. You know... conversations like who wears the pants in the different families we know.

For some couples, it's easy to spot the head of the house. One couple we know made it abundantly clear who was in charge. The wife, with drunken clarity, proclaimed that it was like *she* was the man and *he* was the woman in the relationship.

For other couples, it's not that easy. Sometimes the man plays the fool to avoid having to be the boss at work and at home. In those cases, the woman rules... so long as the man approves.

In our relationship, it's simple. I act like a big kid. I dance and make funny faces. Yet Wendy insists I act like an adult. So I guess I'm an adult. And we both think the other takes better care of us. But when it comes to decision making, I end up making the decisions because we both know that Wendy hates having to decide. (But she puts in a hell of a lot of input.)

Later in the conversation, I threatened to use the Claw on Wendy. She pretended to be a damsel in distress. However, for some reason, her damsel in distress voice sounds like a Georgia Belle. To change things up, she tried an Irish accent. It was the best thing ever! Her Irish sounds just like a Hoosier reading movie lines for a future Scottish Warp-drive engineer. I think I peed a little.

That was when I wished I had a little notebook on hand. We tend to say really stupid things sometimes, and I wish I could record them all for posterity. Plus, Wendy says I say a lot more stupid things than she does, so I need to start keeping score.

One stupid thing I said came after a discussion about letting our future kids dye their hair. I think I said, "I love you even if you're going to make our kids like who they are by not letting them be someone else." Yeah, it didn't make much sense out of context.

The conversation lasted until almost 2 AM. The next stupid thing was said by Wendy this morning as I tried to wake her up for church. "Why do I have to go to church," she asked.

"So that you can meet me in Heaven," I replied.

"Honey, we both know you're never going to get to Heaven." And she rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.

Anywho, it's time to go. I have to take care of a retarded 90 pound pitbull and bring my broccoli-cheese soup down to my parents.