My new wife has been gone this week on business, and I don't like it. Apparently, she doesn't either. The first thing she said to me Monday night was, "When I left, the dancing girls didn't jump out of our closet and throw themselves at you, did they?" I hesitated.
        "No, but Scarlett just left."
        "Johansson? That's impossible, because I had dinner with her."
        "She was probably pretty hungry."
        "Asinine."
        "Think so?"
        "Yes. And by 'inine' I mean 'hole.'"

I've always been an adept bachelor, on every front. In the process of acclimating to married life, however, I seem to've lost my ability to clean and cook. Like a domesticated pig released into the wild, it didn't take long for me to harden to a life of survival. However, I make a very bad pig, or a good one depending on the metaphor.

So I've resorted to speaking aloud to my imaginary friend Scarlett, who silently coaxes me through the day. "That red underwear can't be washed with those white t-shirts. You washed your own clothes for years before this. Remember your training." Despite the pinkness, I've done fairly well. With this help I've remembered to take my vitamins, shave, and buy additional smoke alarms, too.

"Don't open four quarts of green beans. Despite your craving, you can't eat that much."

"America's Funniest Home Videos will come on again tomorrow. You need to go to bed."

"Here, watch me pout needlessly."

Still miss my wife, though.

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