Don’t Cross the Solid Yellow Line

“Keep your hands on the wheel! And will you please stop looking over at me while you’re driving – that’s reckless!

“But you look so incredibly handsome in your work uniform – I can’t help staring at your broad shoulders and tight butt. Besides, this big crate is easy to steer,” she bragged, in a tone that let him know she was a little insulted by his nit-picking advice. She decided to sound the horn, which irritated him.

“Will you stop with the damn honking? You’ll wake everybody up. Then they’ll get mad and tip the crew with peanuts! Including me, which means you’ll receive only one diamond earring for your birthday. How does that sound?”

Keeping both hands tightly clasped to the wheel, she glanced over her right shoulder, bare from the low-cut evening gown, and looked starry-eyed at her husband.

“Darling, you rarely let me drive, so this means a lot to me,” she whispered, in her sexiest voice. She then leaned into him and freshly moistened her lips with her long slender tongue, making sure he witnessed the provocative lick. Before she could pucker up, he suddenly and violently jerked away, redirecting his eyes 90 degrees from her lovely face. An inexplicable look of fear blanketed his face.

“Honey, look out!” His manly cry for her attention was too late, as they careened off an iceberg. His coffee sloshed onto his white uniform. He glanced back at his wife, who seemed undaunted by the mishap. She spoke, as if the accident was his fault.

“Oh, lighten up! It’s probably only a scratch. Hey, do you want to raid the midnight buffet leftovers and skinny-dip in the champagne punchbowl?”

My advice in this post could predictably focus on a husband’s reluctance to seek and accept directions when lost while driving. But that would be a cliché. I prefer a higher philosophical road which includes inflammatory rhetoric, pontification, exaggeration and a small amount of fact-based instruction. So let’s begin with some essential historical background to set the stage for my discussion of marital and vehicular bliss.

Henry Ford perfected the automobile. Mr. Ford’s real legacy, though, was his extensive research that garnered our understanding of the following axiom: only a car can satisfy men’s most lustful urges and desires. Hank drew this conclusion by studying ancient Romans and their emotional attachment to chariots. It all started with Emperor Chuck III, who banned horse-drawn vehicles from military service when he began noticing that soldiers purposely avoided gashing open the chests and abdomens of their enemy to prevent blood from spattering on the wooden upholstery, which was not very stain resistant. The ancient Roman Department of Transportation followed suit by banning chariots from coliseum sporting events that involved skewering skinny, shirtless Christians. That occurred around 500 A.D., although a few historians from Venice Community Technical College disagree with that date. After 500 A.D., men drove chariots for more tranquil reasons, such as Sunday family rides to trample residents of peasant villages, quick trips to the market for figs and lion tenderloins, and romantic drives with sweethearts to Argonaut Lane on Mount Vesuvius.

That’s it. Ancient automotive history in a capsule. All civilizations transitioned their vehicles from objects of functionality to objects of affection. Please remember this as you consume my follow-up posts on this subject.

(next post: Don’t Cross the Solid Yellow Line, part two: True or False Test)

Combination Femur Slicer/Shrimp Fork Versus Lingerie, Part Two: “Those Darn Seams on Boxer Shorts”

Boxer shortsWhile I drive my family to various destinations, my wife and daughter often team up to discuss the social differences between women and men. They typically pause several times and ask me to validate their observations, which I vehemently refuse to do. They usually anticipate my response, which apparently reinforces their expectations of males, which irritates me. Because they were right about my gender.
Throughout my married years, I’ve eavesdropped on conversations between my wife and other females in shopping establishments – whether they’re store employees or strangers. I have always been deeply mystified by the uninhibited content of those impromptu conversations. In stark comparison, I wouldn't consider sharing the same level of detail with my personal physician, unless I spelled out some of the words. Heck, I’m even embarrassed just thinking about some of the topics my wife discusses with females she’s just met.

While standing in a short checkout line of a shoe department, my wife can convince another lady to switch feminine hygiene products while also disclosing that one of my fantasies involves watching Woody from Toy Story make it with Cat Woman. I should never confide in her!

Combination Femur Slicer/Shrimp Fork Versus Lingerie

After watching a movie about a hiker who cuts his arm off to escape sure-death in the wilderness, my family and I exited the theater and strolled through the attached shopping center. We shuffled around in a few stores.
outdoor supplies

We eventually browsed through an outdoor supply store, but after a few minutes my wife and daughter ducked out and found an intimate apparel boutique.

I stayed and shopped for gnarly outdoor stuff. My family loves to hike, so I quickly engaged a knowledgeable store employee who proudly introduced himself as an “associate” and “outdoor adventure technician,” although he really looked like an employee.

He chatted about his favorite places to hike but I quickly redirected his smalltalk to my interests and priorities, since I had money and was willing to give some of it to his store owners. We looked at several products that every serious hiker needs on the trail: combination compass-flashlight-cigarette lighter; combination knife-pliers-shrimp fork; combination granola-walnut-raisin-refried bean trail mix; and combination pancho-blanket-tarp-priscilla curtains. Did you ever notice that there’s always one lame feature in every multi-purpose outdoor adventure product?

Rebel Yell Take Three: “Excuse me! What kind of cheese is that?”

Wisconsin dairy productsCoffee conglomerates shove you around on Wednesday, then maybe the Tire Barn on Saturday and the Jewelry Emporium on Monday. Most importantly, don’t let the Piggly Wiggly deli counter push you around on Friday, like mine tried. My wife and I were studying options for cheese, which is a staple in our kitchen since we originally hail from Wisconsin. We purchase cheese because it tastes yummy, it comes from dairy cows and it employs 17 friends and relatives back in our hometown.

When our turn arrived at the counter, the deli clerk flashed a half smile and quickly replaced her disingenuous greeting with a neutral-to-caustic stare. This pending exchange of commerce – our money for their cheese – showed the early warning signs of two bull moose about to lock antlers in battle. I cupped my hand over my mouth and whispered to my wife, “Honey, let me handle this.” Then I took control, like a rebel should.