It's those rare sober days I remember the best....

It seems impossible to believe, but as of today I’ve been married a whole year. Unbelievable. 365 days. I’m telling you, the time just…what’s that honey? TWO years? I’ve been married two freakin’ years? To the same woman?

Seriously though, they’ve been the best years of my life, except for my six years in college when I was out all night, every night, with any number of women doing many things I'm not allowed to even think about anymore. High school was pretty good too; so carefree and casual. My married years, though, come in easily at third place (although I don’t remember much from age 1-7 except eating paste and squirting WD-40 at bugs...actually those were fun days, too, weren't they?).

I’m ashamed to admit I haven’t bought an anniversary present yet. The traditional gift of the second anniversary is cotton, so I was thinking Q-Tips, a t-shirt, cotton candy, or a membership to the National Cotton Council. I was told those things aren’t particularly romantic, but you’d be stunned how the chicks swoon when you mention the National Cotton Council. I neglected to get her anything for her birthday so I really need to come up with something good. (I know what all the males are thinking – you forget one birthday and it’s like the end of the world. Cripes, it’s not like we’re married or anything). I’m starting to think maybe I should just write a series of really nice things on here. It would have a real cute, personal touch, provided she still looks at this site. I wouldn’t know since I haven’t been home in days. (Can you believe it, she freaked out about that, too! Crying out loud, you take an attractive coworker to Barbados on your wife’s credit card and all of a sudden you’re Jeffrey Freaking Dahmer).

So, a la that episode of Malcolm in the Middle from a few weeks back, here’s a list of things I love about you, honey, in no particular order:

- I love the way I have to wash off your mouthpiece every night since it seems to grow spores, molds and fungus at an alarming rate. I love the Mushmouth-from-Fat-Albert way you talk when you’re wearing it -- very sexy. I love the way you suddenly found out you suffered from TMJ after we got married (hint to you single men), though I’ve never seen documentation to back up this claim.

- I love the way you don’t deny me the pleasure of doing all the dishes, even if I’ve cooked. (What do I mean “if”?) Your contribution to our little family, i.e., watching A Makeover Story and clipping your toenails, is more than enough, and I thank you for it. It should be noted that you do, in fact, clean up your own toenails, something I'm guilty of forgetting every now and again.

- I love the way you don’t get sports. “We want who to win? The Avalanche? Why? But Ray Bourque doesn’t play for the Bruins. Why do you care? Can we watch A Makeover Story?” (To the untrained ear, “Can we watch A Makeover Story?” is an interrogative question, inquiring into the possibility of perhaps watching that program. To the married ear, it’s a declarative sentence, no different than “We are watching A Makeover Story. If we do not watch A Makeover Story, I will want to talk about window treatments and read the Pottery Barn catalog out loud.”)

- I love the way your diet consists of cheese, milk, cereal, eggs and toast. Our marriage has been two years of perpetual breakfast.

- I love the way you don’t mind me blaming anything and everything bad that happens on the dog, bad karma, or rabid monkeys. I realize you haven’t seen the roving band of rabid monkeys that live in our apartment, but rest assured I’ll try not to pack them when we move. That way they won’t get the dog all hyper while feeding him fudge and collard greens at 11:30 at night, guaranteeing that he’ll puke on the bed at about 1:00. They’re crafty little bastards, those monkeys.

- I love the way you decide when my underwear has seen a little too much action. I guess this is something all women do, possibly because of a massive fetish for buying underwear, even if it’s not for them. It is true I have boxers with more gaping holes than a 45-year old porn star and I can understand your being jealous, but you do things my skivvies could never do, like watch A Makeover Story marathon.

- I love the way you don’t mind me making fun of you watching A Makeover Story. You notice no one on that show is married? If they were, it would be called A Woman Sits At Home and Watches A Makeover Story Because She Doesn't Much Care For Her Own Personal Appearance On Account of Her Being Married Story.

- I love the way I’ve somehow acquired Steel Magnolias, Beaches, Mermaids, Mystic Pizza and Seven Brides for Seven Brothers on DVD, while you’ve managed to get out of watching the Exorcist, Bound, Caddyshack, Raging Bull, the Blues Brothers, Godfather I AND II, and any of my massive collection of porn. Oh wait, you made me sell all the porn. Well I love you for that too. I think.

So there you go. If that gets me out of figuring out what National Cotton Council-approved product I should buy, so much the better. Maybe some new sheets for the foldout couch, which is what I’ll be using after she sees the armpit hair jokes. I love that she has a sense of humor.