Month: November 2005

Yesterday evening was a time for celebration. My wife returned for a short duration, and I decided to celebrate with her by skipping work and going to see Harry Potter on opening night.

By the time we got to the new AMC in Tysons, all the shows were sold out until 10 o’clock and lines were forming waiting to get in. Strangely enough, the ticket booth wasn’t swamped. So I went up and asked when the earliest Harry Potter was showing. The lady looked at her watch, punched a few buttons, and said “right now, 6pm”.

“No, I know that… your sign said ‘SOLD OUT’. What’s the earliest I can see it?”

She turns around behind her like she’d never noticed the automated movie board then rotates back to me. “Yeah, sometimes we do that. We have 6 o’clock tickets, and they’re seating now. You won’t miss anything but a few previews.”

Holy cow. Yes please! And within seconds I had my Harry Potter tickets and was marching past the long lines. I instructed Tamara to go grab some seats, and I’d go get some munchies.

I run up to the food counter line, and again, there’s no line and like a zillion attendants. I march up to the first face and ask, “Hi, my movie’s about to start, are your hot dogs made from beef?”

The guy turns around, like he’s never noticed they sold food here before, and says he doesn’t know. And, before I can tell him not to worry about it, as I’d get something else, he starts flagging down other just as clueless workers, who all seem to have no idea where the manager is. Meanwhile, precious seconds are ticking away as my show’s about to start.

My cashier returns and as I’m about to order, some woman step up to the counter and starts talking with him. Now, I know I’m not as pretty as 80% of the women out there, but I’ve got cash and a big order. And, as far as he’s concerned, I don’t have my hot dog answer, so he’s ignoring me. Or flirting. Or both.

Enough of this, and in a loud voice I call out, “look, just never mind” so that if there is a manager on the floor, they can see me shoving wads of greenback firmly into that thing I keep trying to convince people is my wallet.

Pissed, I march into the theater. Whoa. It’s packed. Not tightly packed. But packed. Packed enough I see Tamara sitting in the second row. Great… no food and a twisted neck.

No, wait… wait… they’re doing trailers… they’ve just started! So I go back out the exit and approach one of the friendly door watchers who’s trying to make sure people aren’t sneaking in. “Man, I’m counting on you, how much time do I have before it _really_ starts… I wanna get some food.” He looks at his watch. “You have seven minutes.”

This must have been the most confident guy on the face of the planet, because everything about his posture, delivery, contemplation, and so forth screamed he knew what he was talking about.

Plenty of time.

So, I go running back to the food area, and there are now small lines and fewer cashiers. What happened? I was just here 45 seconds ago?!?

None the less, I go up to a line, and who starts walking toward me from the other side of the counter, Mr. I-Can’t-Help-You-Cause-I-Don’t-Know-Hot-Dogs guy.

Now I know it’s probably not his fault that he’s not beef aware, but what he should know is that if I’m in a mad panic about a movie starting, I don’t want to be standing here for five minutes.

We make eye contact; I shake my head and step out of line, returning to the theater. I’m now pissed and annoyed.

I find my seat, and I get a happy surprise. These theaters are so friggin’ huge and so well designed that the second row itself may actually be the sweet spot. From that vantage point, the screen just falls short of one’s peripheral vision, and the experience is immersive. Yet, at the same time, the center of the screen is almost near eye level, so you don’t have to crane your neck. And what’s this? My seat reclines!!!

Walt is happy again!

But now my throat is starting to get dry. Now I have a choice, miss the opening and deal with the snack bar from hell, or tough it out. I opt to tough it out. And seven minutes goes by, and no movie. Eight. Nine. Ten. Fifteen. What’s going on? I mean, I’m all about conservative estimates, but I could have driven to McDonald’s had dinner, fixed their Coke machine, and been back in this time.

Thirty minutes goes by, and just as I’m at my breaking point to get up, the movies starts. Pish!!

Now all during this time what I hadn’t noticed was the tiny little boy sitting next to me. He’d been so good and quiet all through out the previews he was almost invisible. Little did I know, all of this was about to change the moment the movie started.

In a normal talking voice, all throughout the whole movie, we got lambasted with questions:
“Dad, is that Harry Potter?”
“Dad, is that the castle?”
“Dad, is the the sky?”
“That boat is Chinese, isn’t it dad? We’re Chinese, aren’t we dad?”
“Is that the goblet of fire, Dad?”
“Dad, is fire hot?”
“Dad, are dragon’s Chinese?”
…
and on and on and on and on…

All during this time, he was fidgeting, kicking me, and whacking my arm and hand.

Glances and loud “shhhhhs” didn’t seem to do any good, whether directed at him or his father. So when Harry Potter was being shredded by dragons, attacked by sea creatures, stabbed with a knife, given an alien anal probe, and forced to endure an IRS tax audit, I took far more private joy than I should have when this kid was cowering under his coat in a little ball.

I’m all for audience immersion, with cheering and booing and screams. But, the way I view it is that I, and others, have paid a considerable sum to have an entertaining experience where we can enjoy a little suspension of disbelief, and part of the equation it to be able to hear what’s being said. Unlike TiVo, DVD, VHS, and Deloreans, you can’t back up time and catch it. So anything from questions, to conversation, to heckling that spills over detracts greatly from the experience. Previews, teasers, and commercials are different, we’re not paying for those and often they represent a fictional view of the movie. They’re also freely available on the internet and other sources — the movie content itself, is not.

That’s why I stopped getting frustrated at the kid next to me and turned my mental wrath at the teens sitting behind us. What started out as quiet internal jokes to the group where occasionally their voices might carry by accident turned into a “you know I’m getting drunker by the moment and now I’ll just talk all over the movie”. It became evident that they thought the movie was dumb, but rather than leave, they’d ruin it for the rest of us paying customers.

Thinking to my self, what would James do, I decided that I couldn’t use the exact terminology without ticking off Jackie Chan and his question asking kid. If I had any sense at all, I should of leaned over and had the kid ask his dad if theater hot dogs were made of beef.

When the movie ended, I suppose there was a minor bit of the universe balancing itself back out. The instant the credits rolled, I turned around and gave a glare to the teen and started to stand up. He got up from his seat and rather than going out the isle, stepped over the chair into the prior isle and made way for the door. I’d like to think I was that intimidating, but the real matter of the fact was more likely that he had to go pee. Still, I held on to my delusion, enjoying what last bit of disbelief was suspended.

When I turned back to the other seat monkey, he and his dad were gone. And in his chair was a glove. Ah ha, some one’s gonna get in trouble for losing their expensive glove. Yeah, I turned it in to lost’n’found, but again, I got a little more pleasure that I should have.

Then it struck me. This movie was a little different. The photography was a little bit more artsy, the pace felt more broken, the transitions were choppy, but the CGI effects were much, much, much better. My guess is that a different director made this one, and I’m not sure that I was as pleased.

The last Harry Potter movie was so well done that I was able to stay engaged in the movie the whole time, and that was with a full bladder and an alligator chewing on my foot. Clearly, it was the directors fault — had he made a better movie, I wouldn’t have noticed the other bozos in the audience.

Thursdays mark a fun day for me because it’s Art Klub day. A bunch of cartoonists and artists head over to the local Starbucks, draw, and share advice.

This Thursday was going to be exceptionally fun, because we got Jenn from the RoadHouse to agree to come model for us.

Let me explain how that happened. Yesterday, another cartoonist and I were at the Roadhouse (where else?) and Jenn was our server. We had invited her out to Art Klub before, and she’d even accepted, except that she was a big no-show.

We teased her about it, invited her again, and she again committed to come.

Right. Sure. Whatever. And she knew we didn’t believe her.

So, she whips out some paper and writes on it “I, Jenn, promise to be at Starbucks at 11:30” and signs it. She hands it to me and says, “There, that’s as good as my word. If I don’t show, you can do anything you want to me.”

I look over at Jenn with an evil grin, “anything?” Jenn looks us both in the eye and replies, “Anything.”

I’ve got to learn to get a more solid grip, because the other cartoonist snatched the promissory note right out of my hand.

So now it’s Thursday, and we know Jenn is going to show up, because she would never willingly subject herself to the abuse this group can fathom.

As we’re sitting there watching the time click away, someone turns to me and asks: “you think she’s gonna show?”

We were all thinking it: “Hope not! Muh ha ha ha ha!”

Turns out contemplating humiliating revenge is tedious work, and I decided to go to get a Coke at the next door McDonalds since I don’t do coffee.

Another one of my buddies joins me.

After ordering a vat of Coke, I go over to the machine and press the button. Nothing comes out. The thing is broken.

I confidently look at my buddy and announce, “no problem! I can fix this!” And before he can stop me, I rip the face plate off of the Coke machine exposing a number of wires. Finding a dangling wire, there are several places it can go. I pick one, jam it in, much to his horror, slap the face plate back on, and press Coke.

We’re both waiting for the machine to explode or a fuse to pop, but Coke starts shooting into my cup.

“Wow, man! That was impressive. That would have been great to catch on camera,” he says in astonishment. Now you’re in on it, because you’ve been following my Lack-Of-Spouse series, but he’s not, so when I pull a camera out of my pocket and hand it to him, he’s just as taken back.

To be honest, I was fairly impressed the rewiring of the coke machine worked myself. So, I rip off the face plate again, the wire was dangling just as before, and he pops off a few shots that would look good for Live Journal.

New problem. I can’t get the wire back into the hole.

New problem. The manager of the store sees the huge flash and comes to investigate.

New problem. The manager now sees me rewiring her Coke machine like I’m trying to defuse a bomb.

I instantly play dumb, and thanks to a language barrier, I act like I was filling Coke when it exploded in my hands. She explains she can fix it, and she muddles with the wires but is clearly timid about getting a shock.

So, as she’s got her hands in the middle of this thing, I lean close to her ear and make a sharp hissing pop sound. “Fwpop!!”

She jumps.

Just as she’s getting the face plate back on, the cook leans over and hands me the rest of my order, asking if it’s to go? I’m filling up my cup and answering, “yup, it’s to go.”

Apparently when I startled the manager, she didn’t wire things back up just right, because there was an awful lot of carbonation. And how that carbonation became time released, I’ll never know.

All I do know is that I’m taking my food, which the cook handed to the manager, and the manager handed to me, and as she’s doing this, my cup spontaneously overflows all over the floor.

I look down, “uh-oh”, and since she’s not moving, I grab a hunk of napkins and throw them on the large wet spill, where I start mushing the soggy napkins around with my foot.

I’m seriously trying to help here, but her damage assessment availabilities far exceed my own, and she starts waving her arms as fast as she can. I’ve seen this gesture quite often. It’s the one that precedes Tamara throwing me out of our kitchen in similar circumstances.

She points at the door and says “To go. To go. We clean.” (Okay, now you know she was Asian.)

So there I am back at the Starbucks, and already Day 4 is starting to unfold.

We agree that tonight might be a good night to hit the steakhouse again, if not to let Jenn know she’s now in serious jeopardy.

At the steakhouse we get seated with some new waiter, don’t get either of our favorite waiters, but given that we’ve now got the horse group mixing with the ex-coworker group, conversations start flying. And, what’s the one thing both groups have in common?

Using Walt for verbal target practice.

I suppose I started it. When asked what I’d like for my a side for my steak, I asked for broccoli. The waiter clarified, “is that just broccoli, or would you like carrots and cauliflower mixed in as well?”

“No, I want the bed all to myself tonight, fresh broccoli please.”

Now, should you ever find yourself amongst a group of friends and being coerced to share stories of how you can’t open a can of Spaghetti-Os or have to explain why you were buying panties at Victoria’s Secret, let me share with you something very important.

This is the face of evil:

That’s right. That innocent, young face hides a brutal assault of comic delivery. Notice carefully that Loralie is reading something. I didn’t draw that, and I wasn’t allowed to see them.

Eventually I did.

It was pictures of me abusing myself with a can opener, another was me wearing a bra that was the wrong size (is there a right size?), and so forth. And, as soon as I get to a scanner, I’m gonna show ’em to ya.

How wrong were these comics? How well recognizable that it was me and not some abstracted cartoon dude?

Once again, take a look at Loralie’s face… I don’t even have to write any more. Words no longer do justice.

Follow Up….
Here are the pictures Christy drew of me. Mean. Mean. Mean.

If they weren’t mean, I don’t know that I could respect her.

Anyhow, just to show I can poke fun at myself — here’s my worst fear.

Today was fairly uneventful. It seems the secret to surviving without a spouse is to do as close to physically nothing as possible. For instance, I woke up, it was raining, I went to work, and that sums up about the first 8 hours of my day.

Things got a little more interesting as a phone call to a cartoonist friend of mine actually ended us both up at the steak house, where neither of us had planned on being. Oddly enough, this solved the dinner problem.

By six o’clock, we left, and I decided to start working on the bonfire pictures and videos. It’s near 11:23pm as I write this, which simply means the time totally slipped by me.

I guess the reason it’s taking so long is that we happen to be sitting in the middle of one of those rare update cycles. On the PC side of the house, Microsoft has just released a pile of patches, and it’s taking a bit to get the kinks worked out. My machine is trying to update, even as I write this, and I can only imagine the horrors of being on dial up. Worse yet, many people don’t know how to take care of their PCs, and simply skip this phase, only to complain (usually to me) that their machine is running slow, acting funny, or is displaying pornographic pop-ups every time they hit the space bar.

Under normal circumstances, I’d simply scoff and flaunt my Apple around. However, Apple’s preparing for some major sneaky goodness, and they just put out a major patch for OS 10.4. Unlike Microsoft, which tries to keep adding to the turd until it’s a uber-mess, Apple announces that they are deliberately going to break things in order to make them better.

The down side is that some vendors don’t get the patches out in time, and a number of applications that used to work start acting funny. Amazingly, my 3D rendering software and my video editor are both having a hard time with the changes. Not to worry, in a few days fixes will be available, and things will run better than ever, but that kinda puts a crimp in my getting the stuff done tonight plans. I suppose that’s the price to pay when one wants to be on the bleeding edge of technology.

Amusingly, my cat scared the willies out of me. She snuck up on me while video editing, and just as I was trying to get a frame transition properly aligned, she decided she wanted to play with the mouse that I was using. Landing on my hand, she sends me startled, flying back in my chair — as I thought my mouse just grabbed me or something equally surreal.

This sudden panic attack on my part didn’t do her too good any, and she went scurying across my desk, causing papers to fly, CDs to fall, which made an awful crash, which only scared her and me even more. Because, as she was doing her fireball of terror, my brain wasn’t registering what was going on. All I knew was that my whole computer workstation area was exploding, something that I was sure wasn’t caused by OS.

We’re both calm now and enjoying each other’s company. I suppose I’ll do damage control tomorrow.

Tomorrow happens to be Art Klub day. That’s when I get together with all those famous artists and we illustrate for a few hours. Should be fun.

Given that nothing’s terribly gone wrong today, I’m almost, but not quite, asking “Tamara who?”

That’s not to say I don’t miss her, or that I’ve finally returned to a state of self sufficiency, but rather that I’m so weary and tired I don’t have the strength to notice things going wrong tonight.

Quick re-cap: Walt’s wife is out of town, and Walt has to fend for himself. Last night’s dinner was a disaster, so this evening he eats out and does some chores.

I think by now the aluminum burrs have passed through my system from the manged lid that fell in my food. Not wanting to go through that trauma again, nor wanting to wash a fork (we’re out), I thought I’d grab the camera and some friends and have dinner out. What could be easier?

Alan and Loralie swung by after work, having agreed to help me out with some chores. It seems that within the last two days, my T-Mobile SideKick has decided not to read its internal memory card. I get this SIM NOT READY message, which disables all incoming and outgoing calls, prevents text messaging, and often causes the phone to reboot. Oddly enough, I can still send and receive email.

The last time this happened, I was on hold for four days with customer service, who simply told me to take the phone into a T-Mobile store, and they’d replace the SIM card for free. I did that last time, and it worked. So this time I thought I’d make things easy on myself and return to the same store.

As I’m trying to describe the problem, the sales clerk is trying to get me to spend $200+ on a newer phone. Problem is, the two new features it has, a head set and a camera are two features I just don’t need. Additionally, I can also “upgrade” my plan, and pay $80 per phone per month, instead of $40, for an additional 500 minutes, which I never use anyhow.

While I’m trying to convince the sales person this is not an economically sound idea, he’s twiddling with my phone. He pops the SIM card out, blows on it, and puts in back in. Ha the fool! I know technology, and that kind of wishful thinking is why you’re in retail, and I’m, well, where ever I am.

He hands me back the phone, and as I go to laugh in his face, the phone is working perfectly. Oh, ha ha.

Convinced the phone isn’t working, or more likely is about to implode in a cascade of error messages, I refuse to leave the mall. Just as well, it seems Loralie wants to go exploring.

We decided to hit the Walden’s bookstore, only now it isn’t a Walden’s anymore. It’s a Borders Express. And I have no idea what that would be. A smaller book selection at outlet mall markups? Maybe the Starbucks seats less and only serves Espresso. Who knows.

All I do know is that it doesn’t make any sense, because directly across from the mall is a Border’s super mega store. I mean, if you pull out of the parking lot, you’re already sitting in the non-fiction section.

We didn’t bother to go in, and decided to solve a different mystery.

It seems they’re putting on a new wing at Dulles Town Center mall. Outside are a bunch of lights highlighting a ton of expansive construction. We wanted to know what it was, so we walked down to that end of the mall, and were sadly surprised by a bunch of dicks. Literally.

Was a movie theater going in? How about a new wing for the mall? Nope. A Dick’s sporting good store, two levels it seems, is going in. They had dick posters all over the place.

We decided to walk on. And Loralie thought it might be fun to visit one of her old haunts: Victoria’s Secret. And this time, she had two men in tow.

Just as we were about to enter the store, Loralie spotted her old boss. And, in an aggressive act of work avoidance, she dodged getting noticed, suggesting that instead we go upstairs to the lingerie store.

We didn’t resist. We waited out side…

…for about five seconds.

Loralie started showing me perfumes (and, for the record, I _hate_ perfume). She picked up a bottle and said “this is the new version of the one you said you liked last year.”

Harrumph! I don’t remember saying I liked anything last year. I took a whiff expecting to be overwhelmed by either concentrated musky soap or urine scented rose petals, the kind of smell you expect from the old lady in the pew in front of you who can’t sing on key each Sunday.

But, to my surprise, the scent was alluring and inviting.

You’d think that’s a good thing, until you realize that if you put perfume on Tamara, some strange chemical reaction occurs and it ends up smelling like someone dissolving tin foil with a vat of acid.

I admitted Loralie was right, and we started to explore the rest of the store. Which, I’m going to point out was filled with underwear. Lots of it.

Only problem, it was the ugliest underwear you ever saw. The colors looked so pastel that you thought it was Easter. The nicer looking stuff had been attacked by someone with a Ronco bedazzler. The lace looked more like the doilies my grandmother used on her chairs and table. I mean, really, what is sexy about a 70’s pattern that looks like an Austin Powers poster? Ick, yuck, ick.

Loralie tried her best to help me find something, just on principle, that I liked. The sales clerks offered to help, but Loralie fended them off. I think it was a matter of personal honor.

During her pervasive panty plowing, she stumbled into the oddest pair of panties that I’d ever seen. So, I went and grabbed my camera.

It was at that point the store manager came over and told me I wasn’t allowed to take a picture of their panties in the store.

I asked why.

She said it was store policy. I couldn’t take a picture in the store.

“That’s dumb,” I said aloud, as now there were other employees and customers watching, “what prevents me from buying the panties, leaving the store, taking a picture, and bringing them back? Isn’t that the same thing?”

I reached in my wallet and pulled out a credit card.

“You’re not serious,” she responded.

“But I am, and I’d like to buy these panties please,” and I put the card on the table. As she was ringing me up, I made the comment, “I’m fairly certain that I’m going to change my mind in about 30 seconds. You do have a return policy, correct?”

Her mouth dropped open as she got me a bag.

“Hmm, I don’t know that the bag is even needed, do you? In fact, I don’t think I’ll even be touching them.” To which at that point, I signed the receipt, had Loralie take my fresh panties, and leave the store. We walked right in front of the display case of the store, and took the forbidden picture.

When I’m lifting a skirt, the last thing I want on my mind is whether or not I have to run spell check.

At that point, I walked back into the store, said they didn’t fit, and wanted to return them. This little red tape dance created a substantial amount of paperwork for the manager, but, technically, I did legally own the panties, and it was my right to photograph my property.

The only problem at this point was somewhere between walking out of the store and back in, I lost the receipt.

Yup, I wasn’t sure how I did it, but apparently this side comment was all it took to bring a different sales clerk to tears via laughter.

Turns out the receipt was in the bag, and having never touched my own product, I never knew that.

Just so you know I’m not making up any of this, the returned receipt is shown off to the right.

I checked my phone, which by the way was the whole point of this, and dang it, it was still working. Frustrated, I decided it was time to get dinner.

Now you may think we headed to the Texas Roadhouse. Nope. Oddly enough, I was too tired for steak. So, instead, we went to the Japanese Steakhouse… (look, when your wife leaves, let’s see if you can hold a coherent thought).

We got there and it looked like the place was closed. But there was a big, hand written sign on the door saying “yes, we’re open.” So, we go in.

Turns out one phase of the electrical system across the whole mall was out. I don’t know how this happened, or what this even means in electrical engineering terms, but all I know is that the left side of the restaurant was deader than a Bush presidential speech. The right however, was functioning just fine.

I actually wish it was the other way around, because the air conditioning was controlled by the part of the power that was out. Remember, these Japanese chefs use fire to cook with. It was 78 degrees in there and rising.

Our poor cook was sweating over the hot stove, literally, trying to get our meal out, be entertaining, and not pass out from heat exhaustion.

So far, on day two, I’ve had my phone die, been out done by a minimum wage tel-co brat, lost a bookstore, gained a dick, been chastised in a place of unchastity, thwarted corporate nonsense, and dined in a sauna. For some reason, when my wife is around, this kind of stuff just doesn’t happen.

Ok, it does happen, but she knows how to distract me so I don’t notice it. (Sometimes she lets me chew on her shiny keys and ride in the front part of the shopping cart.)

And, just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse…

…we lost power, and finished our meal in romantic candle light. Exactly the kind of experience you’d want to have with your wife, only she’s not around.

(At least I wasn’t in the bathroom, like someone else in our party. I guess I do have something to be thankful for after all.)

I’m sure you’ve heard of the Butterfly Effect. It basically goes that since we live inside a large, enclosed, inter-related system that everything has an affect on everything else, and thus a wee butterfly on another continent can merely flap its wing, and the resulting draft can cause a cascade of events that do anything from opening a black hole to causing rioting in France.

Today, I discuss how one man’s desire to get a little nookie has left me abandoned in a sea of the unfamiliar. I’ll chronicle my adventures, and in this installment expose how women are covertly entrapping men.

Long story short in order to begin my own: Meet Jeff. Jeff marries my sister. Sister puts out. Sister has baby. Other sister goes across country to see new baby and help new mom. Local niece and nephew left without adult supervision. Meet Tamara, super adult with accompanying vision. Tamara leaves husband to babysit kids… for a WEEK. Husband, me, left to fend for self. So, collapsing the plot, because Jeff got some, I won’t.

Moving on, now that you have context, I’m at home fending for myself this week. In order to help me accomplish this task, Tamara has prep’d the place. For example, I might need to dress my self for work. Here’s how she’s handled that.

That’s right, she’s labeled my dresser.

And the sad part? It helped.

There’s this story about a guy who’s trying to capture some wild pigs. Only problem is, he can’t get close to them. Anytime he does, the pigs spook and run off. So, he gets an idea. He puts some feed in the middle of a field where he sees some pigs running. The pigs eventually learn about the feed, and eat it. Each day, he brings feed and puts it there in the pile, but does not approach. Eventually the pigs learn it’s easier to go to the feed than to work for their own food. One day he skips a feeding, and the pigs return and wait for the food, eventually leaving hungry. They’ve stopped fending for themselves. In his next plan, he puts a post in the ground where the food is. The pigs aren’t sure, but approach without threat in due course. Eventually he builds a small section of stand alone fence. The pigs learn to ignore it. Over the next few days he adds sides, and eventually has a full scale pen with an open door. The pigs march in, get food, and leave. Then he adds a gate, and the pigs ignore it as well, and then one day while feeding, he marches up and closes the gate. The pigs, having given up their freedoms and knowledge of self sufficiency over time in small increments for minor conveniences now find themselves trapped, and eventually on the kitchen table.

Men are pigs, with slightly better hygiene, and with slightly worse table manners. And, it is the process of dating and marriage that snares a man until it’s far too late.

The catch, however, is that women have help. Corporate help. And by this, I mean the evil folks at Pampered Chef.

Oh sure, you may think your wife is off at a party having fun, or you’re getting a great deal, perhaps winning free door prizes in hopes of the ever elusive antifreeze filled ice-cream scoop! But no, here’s what’s really going on: they’re feeding her devices like Q supplies 007.

It’s only day one, and I’ve just discovered in my wife’s absence that my house is littered with them. After you see this with your own eyes, you won’t doubt there’s a conspiracy afoot.

I come home from work at 8:30pm and decide to cook myself some dinner. And, by dinner, I mean Spaghetti-O’s… the low maintenance food for men.

In the cupboard, I discover the one last can. So, I pull out the fancy can opener and go round and round a few times.

Now I’m male, an engineer, and fairly strong. This black blade of death contraption merely morphs the lid of the can into a frictionless surface so that when I pull out an old fashioned can opener, which I used in college when I used to be self sufficient, it would no longer work.

Those bastards! I have only ONE can of food and this genetic gender sensing device has just locked my tasty morsels from my taste buds.

Ah ha! But I’m a man, and I’ll use brute strength. So I pry and pry and pry, until I eventually succeed in ripping the frigging lid of the can, as pictured.

Now what I like about Spaghetti-O’s is that they give you a lot. What I don’t like about Spaghetti-O’s is that they cram them all into one small can, so that when you get it open, they won’t pour out.

You have to smack the bottom of the can again and again, repeatedly, until you dislodge enough to make an air bubble and they come whooshing out. That is except for the fifth of them at the bottom that refuse to budge without even more whacking.

So, there I am whacking away, only to discover that the lid of the can I was just prying off had been mysteriously scored in such a way that it had a time release. The obvious happened.

Pisses me off, cause right at this time the cats are hearing cans crashing and come over where they stand on the hind legs and stretch against my leg begging, emphasizing their innocent love by drilling their claws in with excitement.

No kitty! Down! Not for you!

Still not put off (don’t worry, I do get there), I opt to use a fork and pluck out the burr covered lid.

It was at this point I knew there was a conspiracy. One can. Evil can opener. …and now, no forks.

Seems that as this chain of events was happening, it all had to have been carefully crafted, because that’s the only way that each necessary step could be a precursor to the disaster that followed.

Part of eating Speghetti-O’s is knowing you can do something nice, like saving the labels for the local schools.

What schools do with labels, I have no idea. Maybe they save up a few metric tons and glue them together into play ground equipment, I dunno. But we’ve been saving labels for years, and I figure why stop now.

Only problem is, the zillion steak knives I bought my wife for Christmas are gone. Oh, I eventually find them, they’re on top of the fridge instead of on the counter. I can only assume that she foresaw I’d injure myself and put them out of harms way.

Like a true guy, because they were in a slightly inconvenient place, I opted to use a butter knife instead. We had at least three of them.

So, like a pro, I slid the knife under the label to break the seal as my wife so expertly does.

And, that’s when I discovered two things. First, I’m not my wife. Second, they use some really freakin’ strong glue these days. I guess the labels must be so valuable, they don’t want people running off with them willy-nilly.

It all became fairly clear to me, as I was eating my cold Spaghetti-O’s (two zaps in the microwave and I just got impatient) that the food, the new kitchen utensils, the missing forks, and the magic glue were all too elaborately coordinated.

I know I’m male, but I’m not that incompetent. Like the pigs, I’ve been trapped by warm hugs and hot meals. Now that my wife isn’t here, I don’t just miss her, I sit in the corner crying for her return.

I’ve never felt so helpless and alone. I’d want my mommy, but I’m sure she’s in on it too.