It’s only because of my extremely sensitive conscience and sense of honesty that I am going to tell you this.  I have been unfaithful.  I could have gotten away with it.  I mean my wife doesn’t have pictures or video or anything.  She can’t prove a thing.  But I could never live with myself, so I came out and admitted it.  So she knows now.  I feel like shit, yet having an open discussion with her I think has cleared the air, and it certainly provided me with a profound sense of relief.  I just hope our marriage is still salvageable.

Things started unravelling the day she found those two spots on some clothing.   Paradoxically the spots weren’t anywhere to be found on my clothing.  No sir.  They were on her clothing.  That sounds kind of weird to you I suppose, since I’m the one who traveled down the path of infidelity.  Normally if you find two spots on your spouses clothing, that’s the person that should be seated under the hot, concentrated beam of interrogation.  The thing of it is the spots were actually more than spots.  They  were raised spots.  I think you would have to call them lumps.  That seems more accurate.  I’ll go with lumps.  And they were brown lumps, and they were stuck on the outside of my wife pants, pretty much right where her ass resides.  I know what you are thinking.  You think there’s a good chance my wife had some sort of “accident.”  But no, like I said, the two brown lumps were on the outside of her pants.

So my wife confronted me.  She wanted to know what the fuck those two brown lumps were doing on the outside of her pants.  At first I thought she had some medical question about them, since I am a retired pharmacist and she thinks I have all the answers to problems involving issues of personal health.  She insisted that I feel them, and although I was a little apprehensive, I did as instructed and to my amazement the brown lumps were immovable. Stuck to her pants like two small mounds of amber contact cement.  I was at that moment perplexed, and thought maybe she had been nosing around in my shop again and somehow backed into some construction adhesive or something.  But she said the brown lumps smelled like caramel.  So I stirred up enough courage to scrape a sample of one of the brown lumps with my fingernail, and took a whiff, and sure enough it smelled like caramel to me too.

I told her that was really curious.  What the heck could those two brown lumps on the outside of her pants be, we both wondered?   But I knew what they were.  At that very moment I knew but did not, at that very moment, have the balls to admit it.

My Wife and I in Happier Times

I often pick up a package of candy, like Mike and Ikes, or cherry Nibs, and then surprise my wife with it during one of our special nights watching a movie on our big screen TV.  It’s a routine I’ve followed for quite some time now.  My wife is especially fond of cherry licorice, but appreciates my clever ability to keep our marriage interesting and spontaneous by randomly selecting different items for our special movie night treat.   I scramble off and retrieve it from where I have been hiding it and pop it open right after all the annoying FBI piracy warnings.  Like I’m going to actually want a copy of this shitty movie.  Come on!  You think I want to sit through this garbage twice!  The only reason I rented it was because I wanted an excuse to eat some candy.

So we planned another of those special movie nights and in a Pavlovian response I picked up a box of candy to enjoy during the film, ever hopeful that the candy would not be the only thing offering enjoyment for the evening.   Milk Duds.  That was my selection.  But then that night my wife decided she had some stuff to do and couldn’t watch the movie.  I saved the movie for another day, but not the Milk Duds.  I succumbed to temptation and ate half the box-  HALF the box.  While I was eating them I laid the open box down on my wife’s side of our very comfortable reclining loveseat that we sit on  whenever we watch our big screen TV,  and I guess a couple of the Milk Duds must have escaped unnoticed.  So now you probably figured out what the two brown lumps were that later became stuck to the outside of my wife’s pants. Mystery solved.

But as mentioned, at the time I was reluctant to admit my weakness.  Don’t be so smug you piece of fly-infested horse dung.  You know damn well you would pull a big stall yourself.  Guys just don’t like to reveal their deficiencies.  But my wife kept pounding at me.  She was certain I had something to do with the two brown lumps on the outside of her pants and she was unrelenting in her determination to break me.  As I suspected, when I finally did admit my selfish betrayal,  the ridiculing I received was even worse.   After two hours of putting up with her jabs at my heartless soul, I retrieved the remaining half box of Milk Duds and made it clear I had saved the half box just for her and therefore should not be considered to be a total asshole.  I think what transpired in the way of reconciliation on her part was half of one.

But the topper is she won’t admit it but I probably was doing her a favor.  That half box of Milk Duds is still sitting on our kitchen counter untouched.  You know why?  Because as we all know a Milk Dud has the capability to all on its own yank a healthy molar right out of its socket, not to mention how quickly it can remove a partially missing dental filling, which my wife, as of this very point in time, has an appointment with her dentist to repair.  And dare I ask about all the boxes of candy Dots she availed herself to on her solo, four hour road trips to see family in northern Iowa?  Do you think I tasted so much as one of those tasty fruit flavored treats?  Think again bucko!  Who’s the cheater now?  In light of that shocking information  I think you would agree that I could  easily retaliate with some barbed, accusatory remarks of my own.

But no, as usual I will take the high road and leave it alone.  That’s mostly because  I have an even darker secret I just as well admit.  You’ll find out sooner or later anyway.  The box of Milk Duds I bought for our movie night.  I actually bought two boxes.  I saved one box and I ate the entire contents myself.  Now I am sick of Milk Duds.  A similar thing happened to me with Bit-O-Honeys.  I know I am weak, but at least I’m honest and forthright.  I just hope I don’t have to be honest and forthright about Charleston Chews.  I love those things.  I can’t imagine the havoc overindulgence of those delectable delights inflict on relationships.

Well I’m off to Quick Trip to purchase a make-up package of cherry Twizzlers.  Do you know if that place does any gift-wrapping?

ALFIE

You know how they say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?  Pardon me but I beg to differ.  My son and his wife decided what was missing in their lives was a dog.  So they went and got one.  A Corgi puppy.  His name is Alfie.  He is unmercifully cute so you can’t help but love the little guy despite what a pain in the ass he can be.  I know because at times my wife and I are called upon to doggy sit and the little shit gets into everything, as most puppy’s do I suppose.  He is constantly sniffing and licking and inserting anything that is remotely possible into his mouth.  The stuff that ends up there absolutely begs the question how can that possibly be appealing in any way?   But make no mistake his perplexing sense of taste is more than made up for by his overwhelming cuteness.  And with him cute does not stop with heartwarming facial expressions and whimsical antics.  He seems to be pretty intelligent, and I believe will keep tracking that way as long as he stays clear of anything coated with lead paint.  Which brings me to my original point.

If you are as perceptive as Alfie you have gathered that this blog will be discussing something about teaching an old dog new tricks, because I happened to mention that right off the bat.  I’m  not here to fuck you over.  I am about to reveal a trick that I learned.  You might have thought since I am mentioning a dog here that Alfie was the one that learned a new trick.  But he’s a puppy for Christ sake.  He’s not old at all.  So that wouldn’t make sense.  So if you are reasonably intelligent you have surmised it was i, an old person, that learned a new trick.  I know some of you out there are all confused because I’m not a dog, or possibly you think I am a really, really smart one that can type.  To clear things up for you, this is just an old saying that has been around for a long time.  I’m not sure what’s up with the dog analogy.  I mean I bet there actually are some old dogs you could teach a new trick to.  I’m just repeating what I heard, so fuck off and don’t make such a big deal out of it.   Here is the trick if you are interested.

Ok, you have a dog, so naturally it’s going to take a shit on your lawn, and I am pretty sure that is THE trick you teach your dog before all others.  It is the primo trick, trick number one.  Well number one and number two go together.  They’re combined into trick number one.  You don’t want your dog to pee or poop in your house, I am pretty sure, at least not on your carpet or sofa.  So I assume your dog is well familiar and accomplished with trick number one and does his business outside.

So there it is, a messy turd on your lawn.  You could wait a few days and let it dry out and then take your 9 iron and chip it over the fence into your neighbors yard.  But then there’s the risk your dog or five year old twins will roll around in it and track the mess all over your house  before you take the time to go find your golf bag.  So really the best resolution is to get it off your lawn asap.  Most people do the thing where you take a plastic bag of some sort and try scooping the stinky stuff up with that.  But what happens is you likely make a bigger mess by smearing everything all over the place.  Now you should really go get your garden hose and wash that slippery brown spot off your green grass.

The solution is to get yourself a big box of surgical gloves.  Put one on and slip your fingers underneath the turd.  The trick is to get way down below that tootsie roll.  Create some space for your gloved fingers to glide under it, letting them comb the grass that supports the butt brownie.  Then you are in complete control.  You’ll be clutching the entire mass and have it confined within a protected environment and you can do whatever you want with that chocolate banana.  That’s what I just learned.  In fact I’m going to go out and pick me up some more surgical gloves today, and then call my stock broker and have him dump some money into Becton Dickinson.  I think my method is really going to catch on.

Now that I’ve figured this out,  best of all I don’t have to worry that little Alfie will tumble into one of his keister cakes and be all stinky while I hold him in my lap.  That’s what I’m doing right now.  He’s so damn cute.  You just can’t help but want to cuddle up with the little tyke.  Isn’t that right, Alfie?  You’re just so cute!  Yes you are.  Yes you are.  Yes, yOWW!!  The little fucker bit me! God damn it those tiny teeth are sharp.  Son of a bitch I’m bleeding all over my carpet.  I bet this is one of those new tricks my daughter-in-law taught Alfie.  She’s had it in for me ever since I made fun of her goofy looking shoes. God damn it I wonder if I need stitchers.

Turns out I needed stitches