I would like to state here and now, for the record, I didn’t do it.

I don’t care what the rumors you’ve heard say, I did not break Mel’s hand. She had surgery on it. And not because she hit me in the head with it either, which seems to be another rumor going around these days. Though if she had hit it on the rock that sits on my shoulders, it probably would have broke it, I didn’t do it. Every time somebody sees us together they ask me that. “What happened, she finally give up kicking you in the knees and decide just to go ahead and whop you a good one?” Though probably threw the years, if I was honest with myself, I’ve given her plenty of reasons. After all, this weekend we will be celebrating thirty years together.

Talk about water under a bridge, how about a tsunami! Through the years I’ve had several people ask how we have stayed together so long, and to be honest I’ve never had a real good answer. Maybe because the thought never crossed my mind. If you have to have a reason to stay together, then you must have a reason to want to be apart. Folks, I’m not that deep, 30 years ago the Good Master found the missing piece to the puzzle of my life, and who am I to argue with him?

But trust me the last couple weeks have been interesting. She couldn’t use her right hand at all, and she’s right handed. But I did tell her she better start practicing with her left ... But I’ve never have been handicapped like that before, so it’s been a challenge just as much for her as it has been for me.

You don’t think so, all right then, next time you sit in your recliner, try to lay it back, with out using your right hand. That’s right, the handle’s on the right side— never paid that much attention before, did you?

So guess who has been getting out of his chair every time she sits down and gets back up. Did you know a woman, on average, gets out of her chair three to five times more than a man. What have ya’ll got to do all the time?  I don’t need to get on my treadmill anymore. I’m wearing out the carpet as it is, going back and forth from my chair to hers.

And I haven’t pulled this much K.P. (Kitchen Police, for those of you who have never worn the green uniform} since I left the Guard.

  First I’ve got to come with a menu, cook it, then clean up after. Hey we’ve had a deal for years, who ever cooks, the other cleans up, what happened to my union contract? I cooked a nice ham, alright I warmed up one of those canned ham’s, the other night, fixed her plate, set it on the bar, and she just stared at it. Then it hit me, how’s she gonna cut it up? So being the good husband I am, I cut it up for her. That’s when I finally realized, this is about as much fun for me, as it is for her. Nobody likes to be treated like a young’in, but were making the best of it.

So lately, just to make her feel better, I’ve been making the ultimate sacrifice. It’s been tough, but I knew I’d have to do it. I’ve let her hold the remote.

 The other day, I watched somebody make a wedding cake, and I never opened my mouth. Ya’ll ought to be proud of me. I sat there and this guy started piling one big chunk of cake on top of the other, and all he did was complain about of how tough it is, and all I could think of was, he’s complaining about how tough it is spreading icing on a cake — trying getting a log out that’s hung in a debarker, when it’s 30 degrees and pouring rain, then tell me about how frustrating your job is.

 But I didn’t say a word, I just sat there with a stupid grin on my face, telling the love of my life, “I sure wouldn’t want that job!”

Then there’s the chick flicks. I’m sorry, I know that’s not P.C., but I don’t know what else to call them. First, they slam into the wall, making out, then the next thing you know the sun’s coming threw the window, and there they are curled up in the satin sheets, making out again. Com’on folks, this is TV. If you slam into the wall, you’re gonna knock all the pictures off it. Then the dog’s gonna start running around the house cause he thinks somebody’s breaking in. That’s not counting the goose egg you’re gonna put on the back of her head. Then the next morning, the cat’s gonna be between you, or either on the head board staring down at you. And you wake up with that feeling of somebody’s staring at me.

Now, let’s see, they went out to supper last night, ate a salad, steak or seafood, jumped straight into bed, didn’t brush there teeth, oh, yeah, I’m sure their breath is minty fresh. There’s something in the air, all right, and I doubt it’s love, more like something the dog drug in. I’m a hopeless romantic, I can’t help it.

But things are getting back to normal. She’s using her hand more, and she finally gave me my remote back. And that’s a good thing too.

Cause in the words of cousin Judy, one more chick flick, and I’d be “Over the edge.”