I’m still a viable husband. But I’m a freaking scaredy cat.


Last week, Tina was bemoaning the time it took for her sink to drain. She’s been dumping gallons of Drano products down it to try and get the water to move like kids on X at a rave.

It’s bugged her for a while. I don’t use her bathroom, so usually I don’t give a hoot.

But Tina’s bemoans became bah-bitching. So I sprang to action.

First, I went underneath the sink and unscrewed the elbow joint, which is the plastic PVC tubing that I think is not recommended or illegal in 49 states. There were three pieces in all that make up the joint. And once separated and cleaned, I couldn’t remember how to put the damn thing back again.

I was expecting to find a gunky load of crap at the bottom, but nothing was there.

Before I replaced the joint, I jammed a wire hanger into all the holes like a 15 year old trying to give herself a home abortion.

Then I replaced all the PVC and ran the water. Except for some new leakage, my efforts weren’t successful.

I got out from under the sink and looked at the drain when a light went off in my noggin. On lots of sinks, that little drain plug comes out. Not on Tina’s. So I set out to get that thing out. I had to unscrew a few things underneath the sink.

When we finally pulled out the plug, there was a mouse-sized ball of fur attached. If lightning struck it, it would probably re-animate into a living Frankenstein creature.

Tina gasped when she saw it. “THAT was in my drain!” Oh my gosh!” she screamed.

When she woke up from fainting, I conducted a short funeral for the beast, and I spent another eight hours replacing the sink plug.

I’m happy to report that the water now drains like a champ. There’s something validating about successfully fixing something that, should we have called a plumber, would have cost $250.

If I had to pay $250 for some crack-assed dude to produce, I would have probably fell into a slump of bitter depression and given up the ghost of a decent husband.

Fast forward to last night. I was laying in bed, awakened after a trip to the bathroom. I had tea before bed, and that inevitably gets me up at least once. Talulah had already made it into the bed, and I was petting her head lying on my hip when a light went on in the house.

Usually Tina doesn’t stir when I get scared. But she looked up for this one. Then she put her head back down as if to go back to sleep.

Holy crap! My biggest fear came true. Someone broke in our house. He (or she!) was in my office  just next to the bedroom, and I needed a blunt object to hit them with. I’ve thought this a thousand times, and like the boy who cried wolf, Tina doesn’t even believe me anymore.

But this time, they took the time to turn on the light.

So I stood at my bedroom door looking at the bright light looking for a jewelry case, one to throw and one to hold on to.

In my worst scared voice, I called out, “Who-who’s there?”

And then our cat Zoe scurried out and ran into Tina’s bathroom across the hall. I think she ran in there to get the re-animated hairball still in the trashcan from Tina’s drain.

Even after seeing Zoe, I still had to go in the office wielding a jewelry box and flexing my muscles.

Happy Halloween everybody. I hope you have to change your pants at least once from being scared.


Finally! A religion more ridiculous than the others

Being a Jedi, it seems, is not as easy as it looks in the movies. But these folks in the basement are giving it their best shot. A small army of them—15 grown men, three grown women—have congregated in the remote town of Norris, Tennessee (population 1,493), for the 11th annual gathering of people who practice Jediism as a real, honest-to-goodness religion. Yes, they’re followers of the faith from Star Wars that helped Luke Skywalker pilot X-wing fighters with his eyes closed and Anakin Skywalker, a.k.a. Darth Vader, choke people from across a room. The Force. The Dark Side. The divine wisdom of a 900-year-old backward-speaking puppet. These pilgrims believe in it all.

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