Yeh, have I sinned against nature and my beloved wife’s aesthetic.

For you see, my brethren, I have consolidated two to three incomplete sewing kits in cheap, brittle plastic boxes into one container made of tin, a material that will outlive us all.

Not even a cookie tin, but a tin that previously sheltered the blessed cake of fruit, crafted by the monks of Nelson County and bathed in sweet, sweet corn liquor. Yes, even now, you can smell the barrel house when you open the lid.

Ah, but my transgression is great, and the sorrow I have brought upon my house is greater. How shall she be able to see all the colors of the thread without the semi-see-through lid that is held shut by a deteriorating plastic clip? How will she be able to keep the thread that is azure separate from the thread that is the color of spun gold?

And to add to it, I labeled it incorrectly, having used a length of duct tape and a marker I took from Her Ladyship’s own desk to write up on it “SEWING KIT” so that the uninitiated may know the contents of said tin of holding.

Oh, the tackiness, the horror! Oh, the trashiness, the low-rent, trailer park mentality that led me to do such a crime?

Oh, the shame of it! Oh, how shall I ever make this up to her?

What penance shall I do to atone for this crime? Shall I flagellate myself with the many skeins of yarn that lurk in the house after our son, the Young Prince, the last scion of her father’s house, stopped his fascination with knitting these many years ago? Or perhaps I could walk thrice around the house after she has scattered the floor with some of the 3,925,843,212 Lego pieces that are housed in our basement?

Look not upon this poor sinner, children. Know only that it is better to have needle and thread placed strategically throughout the house than to have it consolidated into one durable, clearly labeled vessel.

The other day, Irish Woman and I were discussing our plans for the yard this year. She wants to relocate some blueberry bushes and put in another vegetable bed.

I commented about how the lawn mower needed its annual service, and that we’d probably be doing our first cut of the year by the end of March.

That’s when the… discussion started.

It appears that since we moved to our current house, I have been monopolizing the time spent riding around on the lawn mower. I have, with malice and forethought, given up about 1/4 of my weekend to mow, trim, and clean up our yard.

How awful of me. To go out on a Saturday morning, gas up the John Deere, and spend two hours mowing the lawn. Then, I put a battery in the string trimmer and whack weeds and edge along the driveway and sidewalk. I oppressively make sure the areas around the mailbox, trees, power poles, and the still-unused basketball goal are neat.

And let us not forget the pure ecstasy of using a leaf blower to get all of the clippings and dirt off of the sidewalk and driveway so that they aren’t permanently stained green the next time we drive or walk upon them.

I am robbing, yes robbing my family of the enjoyment of having to take a shower until the water no longer runs green. I am denying them the joy of having a pair of shoes so nasty by July that I have to throw them out in September.

Why, I am even taking away the joy one gets when you are 30 feet away from being done and have the weed whacker run out of string or battery, or both.

To atone for these and other sins, I have made a decision, in keeping with my powers as Pater Familias.

This year, I ain’t mowing a damned thing.

Instead, I shall sit upon my deck, drinking coffee, and watching the grass grow on Saturday mornings. I shall refrain from purchasing lawn mower parts, not even the fuel needed to have the movable feast that is riding a lawn mower through clouds of gnats and straining grass clippings out of a beverage with my teeth.

Instead, I shall leave that pleasure to the ones I love. In fact, I will leave it all to them. Far be it from me to deprive my son of the lesson of getting out of bed at the crack of dawn on a Saturday so that you can start that mower up right at 8 AM.

My wife will know the joy of having to set a calendar event on Friday night to make sure the batteries for the weed whacker and leaf blower are charging before she goes to bed.

I, on the other hand, will know the shame of sitting in their usual spot, watching someone else toil. Perhaps I shall sip coffee, or maybe even iced tea. I shall, on occasion, take a cold beverage out to them, then get pissy when they neither see nor hear me trying to get their attention.

Oh, my family, how I have wronged you. Fear not, for I have recognized my sins, and will endeavor to not repeat them. Enjoy the chlorophyll tattoos on your calves and ankles, the chigger bites, and the sunburns. I shall do my penance by doing things in the air conditioning for a summer.

Her, making her breakfast before heading to her desk for the day – It’s Halloween. What spooky movie do you want to watch?

Me, finishing my breakfast and contemplating what to do on a rare day off – I don’t know. Did we have a videographer at our wedding?

Her – ………….

Not sure why, but the temperature in the kitchen just dropped 30 degrees in a few seconds. Send help.

Our anniversary is coming up, and like most husbands, I struggle to figure out what to get Irish Woman as a present.  While there is a lot of advice on what women want, here’s some friendly advice on what not to get.

1. Unless your wife is a fitness nut, things like workout clothes, digital fitness assistants, or gym memberships.  Seriously, even if she’s been talking about trying to get into better shape, let these ideas die on the vine.
2. Steak knives, butcher knives, cleavers, or any other dual use technologies, unless she’s a chef and you’re splurging on her.
3. Kitchen appliances.  See above note about chefs.
4. Other home appliances.  Seriously, she may say she doesn’t care, but I have yet to meet the woman who would rather have a new vacuum cleaner or dishwasher than something, you know, thoughtful and romantic.
5. Self-help books.  See item 1 about fitness-related gifts.  If she wants to improve herself, she’ll do it herself.

Remember, guys, if you know your wife as well as you should, there are always fall-back gifts if you get stuck:  jewelry, guns, books, spa days, whatever.  Don’t step on your schwanz by getting her something on my list, and for heaven’s sake, don’t go for the “I don’t want anything” or “This necessary thing counts as my gift.”  She’s precious to you.  Indulge her when you can.

It begins like any other morning. I am lying in bed… it is quiet. I am listening to the rain outside the window holding the Viking’s hand and snuggling with the cat. I am thinking, I am so glad I live where I live and grateful for what I have. “Happy birthday America”………..

Then in the distance I hear what sounds like the battle cry of an Indian war chief galloping on his mustang toward our bedroom. The cat starts to growl in my ear. Then in an explosive moment the bedroom door bursts open, Tater is squealing as he jumps and lands on top of me. Then right behind Tater is an airborne rain-soaked 75lb black lab pup who strategically lands in our bed on the 50 yard line. In all the excitement the cat digs her claws in my jugular vein while letting out a fierce warning howl.

The Viking rises and with the voice of Odin clears the room with a flash of lightning. ….. all is quiet… a gentle rain outside the window.

Like I was saying, it is July 4th. It is 7:58 A.M. EST. I am lying in bed grateful for what I have and that I live in a great country. Happy birthday America!

In case you were wondering, her nickname for me is “The Viking”, and her nickname for Boo is “Tater”.  Yes, we live on that ragged edge of madness.