Sleeping With The Enemy

As all married men know, sharing a bed with your wife can be a harrowing ordeal. A nightly harrowing ordeal. Here is my story:

Unseen Obstacles: On most nights, my wife goes to bed much earlier than I do. However, before going to sleep, she likes to take a moment to craft an assortment of booby traps in the pathway between the bedroom door and my side of the bed. And when I come to bed, I must trek through her obstacle course in the dark. And naturally, just like an unsuspecting burglar in a Home Alone movie, I walk blindly into each household booby trap and suffer a nightly barrage of cartoonish blows to the groin and head before reaching the bed. Sometimes her traps are simple, like traversing through 14 pairs of shoes on the ground, all with the heels turned upwards. Other times, she may place an open suitcase in my path, positioned in a way for the lid to instantly clamp down on my leg like a grizzly trap when stepped on. And sometimes, she’ll put our lamps and nightstands in weird places and reconfigure the walls of our bedroom so that I crash into them. Of course, most nights I am usually stumbling to bed completely drunk, so that could be part of the problem as well.

Defensive Stance: My wife is a hard-nosed defender. When sleeping, she crowds my side of the bed and positions herself to not allow me any movement whatsoever. I am seriously stymied. In basketball terminology, we would refer to this as a defensive lockdown. And as the rules state, once a defender has established position, any contact made by the opposition is clearly an offensive foul. Consequently, because of her lockdown, I can’t rollover or move my arm without drawing contact. I think she hopes is that I’ll eventually foul-out and be ejected from the bed.

The Night Auditor: I have been awakened many times by my wife talking in her sleep, usually asking an accounting question like “Why doesn’t the general ledger match the data in the cost report?” Fantastic. She is conducting an audit in her sleep again. With a marriage of an actuary and an accountant, you can say that there is always a dull moment in our house.

The Alarm Clock: My wife ambitiously sets her alarm for very early in the morning. Unfortunately, she rarely has the same ambition needed to actually get out of bed when it goes off. Perhaps one day a month she’ll actually get up with her alarm. The other days she simply hits the “snooze” button, and I am treated to a completely unnecessary wake-up, an hour before I need to get out of bed. While being awakened prematurely is never enjoyable, I try to put the extra hour to constructive use. For instance, I can spend the hour endlessly rolling around, desperately trying to get back to sleep. In addition, I have an extra hour now to stew about how much I dread going to work everyday. Needless to say, both of these options are great ways to start the day.

Tall Tales: In the morning, I get a rundown of the agonizing events my wife had to endure the night before. Her tales of hardship center around things like getting up to console a crying baby, or having to cope with the theft of blankets by her husband. Of course, I can usually manage to sleep through the sounds of a crying baby so there is no way to know if her account is totally fabricated. We’ll just assume it is. As for the blankets, while I would love to point out her many annoying sleeping habits, I am usually too delirious from exhaustion to muster a defense for myself.

As you can imagine, I look forward to the day when it is socially acceptable for a married couple to sleep in bunk beds. And just in case that day does arrive, let me get this in print: I call bottom.

The Grocery-Getter II

As I mentioned last week, the Centaur household is in need of a new grocery-getter. And once it came time to find a new family car, I had only one concern weighing on my mind: My own personal comfort.

Therefore, I initially focused my car search on used limousines. I really liked the aspect of privacy glass and the abundance of luxurious amenities. Also, the option of being able to raise a barrier walling off the driver at the passengers’ discretion was particularly desirable. I was all set to buy one, actually. Unfortunately, my wife refused to wear a chauffeur’s outfit, which ultimately killed the allure for me.

My next choice was a giant motor home. Obviously, the ability to run errands in a fully functioning home on wheels was enticing. I even found a really fuel-efficient model that got upwards of six miles to the gallon, highway. It all seemed like a great deal until I realized I couldn’t find a motor home with a basement, thus making it impossible to include a mobile Zillionaire’s Lounge as well. No thanks.

Finally, I arrived at the next best choice: A minivan.

Now, put your prejudices aside and please keep in mind the following:

1. I don’t ever plan on driving the van.
2. I don’t ever plan on riding in the passenger seat either.

No, I will reside solely in the way back. While traveling, I will be sitting in one of several leather seats that fully recline and offer ottomans to rest my feet on. I will be enjoying ample legroom, headroom and armrests. I will be utilizing the many cupholders and adjusting my own climate settings in the back. I will be watching DVD’s, playing video games or sleeping comfortably. And I will be doing all of these things while my wife does the driving. I only wish the van had a fireplace option, just so it would create the experience of riding around in a living room on wheels.

Are you ready for the icing on the minivan purchase? I asked for a vibrating/heat massage pad that plugs into a cigarette lighter for Christmas. Ideally, I will be doing all of the above while simultaneously getting a Swedish massage.

Surprisingly, my wife is completely in favor of this arrangement. Let’s examine how a minivan purchase benefits her:

With me isolated in the back, she has complete control of the radio and thermostat, luxuries as yet unknown to her.
2. Disengaged in the back, I will be unable to critique her driving, or that of other motorists.
3. Provided I am awake, I’ll be able to keep a semi-watchful eye on our son while we travel.

As you can see, the minivan truly makes everyone happy. It is roomy and comfortable like a motor home. It is even black, with privacy windows, closely resembling a limousine. And to be on the safe side, just in case she changes her mind, I got my wife a chauffeur’s outfit for Christmas.

If you’d like to see pictures of the Grocery-Getter II, check out my wife’s blog.

Driving My Wife’s Car

At the Centaur household, we are a two-car family. And when it comes to getting around, I prefer to drive my truck: The Man-Mobile III. It’s aptly named.

However, there are unavoidable occasions when I find myself forced to drive my wife’s car: The Grocery-Getter I. As you might expect, I try and avoid these instances at all costs.

The Grocery-Getter I is a 2000 Honda Civic. It’s about as powerful as a riding lawnmower, and due to its dark green color, actually looks like one too. If you were to somehow put a mower deck on her car, you would be hard pressed to distinguish it from a John Deere. Seriously, whenever I find myself behind the wheel, I have to fight the urge to pull over every half mile to empty the grass catcher. Needless to say, it is not cool to be seen in. I honestly feel like “The Waterboy” when driving down the freeway.

Of course, that’s only the beginning. The biggest problem I face in driving my wife’s car is simply dealing with all the unnatural seat and accessory settings in place. For instance, the first thing you notice when you get into the Grocery-Getter is that you can’t actually get in. Unless you are a circus contortionist, you’ll find that it is physically impossible to enter her low-riding car with no headroom, which has the steering wheel set so close to the seat that it crushes your pelvis upon entry.

It gets better. If you do happen to limbo inside, you’ll find that the rearview mirror points at the floor mats. It’s funny to think that from my wife’s perspective, this view would be considered normal. It reminds me of when you wear someone else’s glasses, and you openly marvel about the extent of their impaired vision.

Also, you can never plan on getting very far in the Grocery-Getter I. First off, it is guaranteed that the gas tank will be bone dry. It’s a good thing this car gets good gas mileage, as it pretty much has to go months between re-fillings on the occasions I actually drive it. In fact, my wife has never once bothered to put gas in her car. I’m convinced that she thinks she drives a solar-powered car.

It should also be noted that her car is generally nine months overdue for an oil change. No amount of stickers on the windshield seems to prevent this phenomenon. On top of that, it is unlikely that jumper cables, tools or a flashlight can be found in the trunk. Of course, it is not for my lack of planning. I made her a toolbox of emergency supplies to keep in her trunk at all times. Unfortunately, there was a slight misunderstanding. When I told my wife that she needed to have these items in her car “at all times,” she thought I meant “absolutely never.”

To be fair, once you finally get behind the wheel, it is actually kind of fun to drive my wife’s Civic. In fact, driving her car is the closest thing to playing MarioKart in real life. On the freeway, it feels like you could just zip underneath 18-wheelers or accelerate through oil slicks. Whenever someone passes me in the Grocery-Getter (which is often), I must always resist the impulse to hit buttons on the console hoping to shoot banana peels or turtle shells at them.

That being said, it honestly doesn’t surprise me that Honda Civics are routinely among the most commonly stolen vehicles in the country. I’m pretty sure it is mostly due to MarioKart junkies seeking the ultimate fix.

While the Grocery-Getter I has its merits, we are nevertheless in the market for a Grocery-Getter II. And of course, I will provide an update on how this progresses. Meanwhile, we are considering alternatives to simply trading in the Civic. I’m thinking about tossing the keys to my son Charlie. He’s seven months old, and next year he’ll want to drive a Big Wheel around the neighborhood. I think The Grocery-Getter I will provide roughly the same experience.

My Online Dating Profile

About Me:

I am the cockiest chewer. I will take down anything in two bites. I’ve choked alone in my apartment dozens of times now. One time I was gagging for my life.

Etiquette wise, these circumstances have led me to actually have to consider at what point do you pound on your neighbor’s door if your life is on the line? I mean, I don’t want to interrupt someone’s afternoon soaps for a choking false alarm. I am a captive lion not a boy who cries wolf. So far I’ve managed to get myself out of all my predicaments so I’m building up this confidence that is really probably all wrong. Why am I developing a tolerance to near-death experiences out of courtesy for Days of Our Lives’ Nielson ratings? So I’ve come up with a solution.

I can either go on living in this constant state of danger or I can start dating. I can either accept the fact that I will succumb to a large bite of toast, or put myself out there a bit more. Don’t consider it an indecent proposal, it’s more of a can-you-recognize-the-international-sign-of-choking proposal.


This is where you come into the picture. Of course we would date (hang out, whatev), fall in love, and work together to find that deep, enriching love that will mutually inspire our passions, creativity, and all that good stuff. It’s a given that I would love you, cherish you, challenge you, comfort you, take care of you when you are sick (or just grumpy), and that we would explore the world and our place in it together, but you must never lose sight that your primary purpose would be to save my life in situations where I am choking.

Bear in mind that you can use whatever method is required. You are not limited to the Heimlich maneuver, despite its almost universal endorsement by the medical establishment.

You and I would definitely have to fall in love because I need close to 24 hour supervision in this area. Without the serious levels of commitment that can only be gained through the trust and complete honesty of a monogamous relationship, we would never be able to stand spending that much time together. And God knows why, but I have actually woken up at three in the morning, stumbled into the kitchen and taken down a Tofutti Cutie in a single gulp.

So what’s up ladies? Have you ever wanted a pet boa constrictor but didn’t want to deal with feeding it rats and baby pigs? Holla back.

Please Vote For My Wife

When you cast your ballots this Tuesday, I ask that you please vote in support of my wife. She is a hard-worker. She is responsible. And she needs your vote to become Spokane County Auditor.

And, she would definitely appreciate your vote for District Court Judge, position 4.

And finally, please also consider her for the 9th Legislative District House Seat #2.

Ok, technically, she isn’t knowingly running for any of those offices. When I filled out my absentee ballot today, I noticed there were a handful of races that were either unopposed or featured candidates that I had never heard of. So, I decided to list my wife as a write-in candidate for those positions.

But then, when I actually had to mark my vote, I determined that she was too inexperienced and generally unqualified to hold office. And thusly, I voted against her in all three races.

In a few days, the results will come out, and my wife will be the first ever write-in candidate to not even get the vote of the person that wrote her in. And, she’ll likely finish dead last in three different races, with a grand total of zero votes. Clearly, she needs your support.

I feel bad for her, but I made the right decision. In each race, I voted for the best candidate. I’m proud to say that I voted my conscience, and didn’t let any personal feelings get in the way. This is how our democracy is supposed to function.