"I'm gonna kill that crazy Murdock!" - Mr. T, The A-Team

In about a month, we'll get light on the house, rather than just on the tops of the trees near our house. Until then, the Sun is but a myth, eaten by a wolf-god. Or something.

I love my wife. The Mrs. is a wonderful woman, good with children, soft-headed about dogs kind-hearted to dogs, and better to me than perhaps I deserve. She allows me to work silly hours, understands that I have a whole list of bizarre rules (I’m pretty high maintenance – you should hear me order at a restaurant) about the way I live my life. But she’s the woman for me.

We love to watch most of the same shows on TV, and argue about who gets to look at the Cabela’s catalog first. We read the same books. Our politics are so close to each other’s that I can’t even start a decent argument. Every year we are together, we love each other a bit more. It’s the stuff of fairy tale legends, being in the happily ever after phase.

Which isn’t to say that she’s not crazy. Because, you know, she is. Nutty as a loon.

She’s not eighteen, but first on her Christmas list was a copy of “Grand Theft Auto – San Andreas.” This is a mother of two, but last night I watched her computer avatar stomp several people to death for $42 of virtual cash. Then said avatar car jacked a suburban and ran over a cop and stole his gun. R-rated stuff. As I said, she’s a good Mom, so all the little Wilders were snugly duct taped to their beds, so they didn’t witness Mom’s killing rampage. I went to bed about midnight. Word on the street is that she was killing folks until 4 AM.

That’s nutty.

We’ve lived here for a year, and I was in our main bathroom the other day. I popped open the medicine cabinet, and pointed out that we should think about replacing the cabinet when we remodeled (say, in 2016) the main bathroom. She was in shock. We’d lived here a year, and she’d not noticed that there was a medicine cabinet in the main bathroom. She thought it was just a mirror.

That’s goofy.

And, she hasn’t yet figured out that The Boy, who had been comprehensible to her previously, is now joining the International Brotherhood of Smelly Men, even though he’s still at the tender age of five.

We were driving on a quest to get some computer parts the other day, and The Mrs., The Boy and I were talking. As we drove by The Home Despot, The Boy noted that we needed to stop at The Home Despot and get some tools.

Me: “What tools?”
The Boy: “We need to get a router.”
Me: “We have two routers in the basement. We don’t need another one.”
The Boy: “But we need one.”
The Mrs.: You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Me: “Boy, what kind of router to we need?”
The Boy: “A computer router.”

As usual, The Boy was right that we needed such a router (we were attempting to sling together enough computer power so The Mrs. could be a street punk) but just wrong about what store you’d get such a thing at. Rule #1: When you’re shopping and The Boy says we need something, he’s right. I’m still not sure what to do with that basement full of Skittles . . .

But, as I said, The Mrs. doesn’t get that one, yet.

Despite being just a bit crazy, well, I’ve got something to admit:

I’m a bit crazy, too. Mainly about The Mrs. Oh, and beer. And duct tape.