"One murder does not a murderer make." - Diane, Cheers

So, Fairbanks sunset. Beautiful. At about 2PM. At about -20F. Gotta take the good with the bad. Stupid sunset.

Like many husbands across the United States, I took time away from work during the holidays to spend with family.

Like many wives across the United States, The Mrs. was probably twenty-four hours or so from becoming a felon when I did go back to work.

“Murder,” she wrote.

It would have been murder, too. And the cause? Well, me.

Cabin fever is the story of legend. Folks together so long that one of them snaps and takes out the others. In the really juicy (and tender, not to mention well-seasoned) ones the headline “Man Has Friend For Dinner” is appropriate. It gets to the point that just seeing the other person breathe is enough to illicit hatred as deep as the French feel for Lance Armstrong (Merci bleu! He iz zo infuriating, zat Lance Armztrong!) or ketchup. I don’t know that the French hate ketchup, but something tells me that they do.

Anyhow, I was just getting ready to talk about my faults. I know, you’re saying, “John Wilder, how could you, paragon of all that is good and worthwhile in the world, have faults?”

Well, for starters, I’m blind.

Not in the sense that I get to check the box on my taxes for the extra deduction blind, but in the “man” sense. I walk around the house and tend to discard seemingly random items of my apparel, and leave them strewn about like the Easter Bunny leaves eggs - some out in the open, some hidden that you only find due to the smell. Keys, ammunition, empty beer cans, knives, drill bits, shoes and things that roll go on horizontal surfaces, clothing goes pretty much anywhere, with the exception of the hamper. Case in point, The Mrs. just pointed to a leather case above the computer monitor.

The Mrs.: "Isn't that your razor sharp 4" Buck Hunting Knife that you left where your five-year-old son could get to it?"

Me: "No, that's on the counter."

The Mrs: "What's that, then?"

Me: "That's just the combination tool, you know, my Leatherman."

The Mrs: Silence.

Me: "That's worse, right?"

The Mrs: (As if to a five-year-old)"Right."

If that was it, well, it might be tolerable. As it is, I’m also deaf. Not deaf as in hearing aid deaf. I have proof I have minor hearing loss in whatever ear is facing The Mrs. when it involves stopping doing what I’m doing to do whatever selfish thing she wants me to do, like fend off the wolves from the baby while she douses the fire that broke out in the kitchen while I was cooking and wandered off and incinerated a skillet of chili dogs au gratin that’s currently threatening to turn the logs of our cabin into an inferno. But that’s not even it. I can’t hear the baby cry. It’s just not in my hearing range.

The Mrs. claims that women have evolved these ”super senses” that allow them to see the trail of crap that men leave behind, and detect a baby’s cry, even if that baby is around the corner. I’m not sure I believe it.

Regardless of these paranormal abilities that The Mrs. claims to have, I think I would be okay if it were just me. But it’s not.

It’s The Boy, too. He confided in me today that The Mrs. made him bathe. In the middle of the day. For only the flimsiest of reasons, namely, that he’d taken the bottom off a marker, pulled the green felt ink-saturated tube and and slathered himself in the color green.

“Why did you color yourself green?” I asked.

“I didn’t want to color myself yellow, ” he answered. That made sense to me.

The Mrs., though, wouldn’t buy it. She made him wash. Green must have offended whatever sensory organ detects The New Boy crying. She also noted that not only do I leave a trail of crap, but The Boy does as well. Enough.

So, between having coffee with friends, taking garbage to the transfer site, and scouring Home Despot for nice shiny metal bits, he and I hid out in the basement turning longer pieces of wood into shorter pieces of wood and little piles of wood dust. Even given our selfless trekking and messing around, The Mrs. pronounced the two of us in tandem a twenty four hour per day job. Lots of people are looking for full time work, I explained, she should be happy.

I did make her happy, finally, by trooping back into work. And I saved one, or maybe even two lives. I wonder what happens when there are three of us making mayhem?