You are what you eat, and I've obviously been eating submissive housewives. Yum.

I think between writing about tabling, mountain climbing and trashing my lats doing pull-ups, I actually do a pretty good job of emasculating myself on these pages more than occasionally. At least I hope so. I'm looking for a balance.

This is one of those emasculating posts, although it may throw that balance completely off.

The other night, of all nights, Courtney, mimicking a scene from Six Feet Under that we had just finished watching, asked if I'd be her wife.

I said "of all nights," and this struck me after about her third or fourth query regarding my potential wifedom, and my third or fourth reply of absolutely not, because it had occurred to me that, in a classical, non-feminist sense, I actually was her wife, minus the vagina.

See, we had just finished eating the delicious meal I had begun preparing before she even got home from work, before which, in a fit of domesticity, I had washed the sheets, remade the bed, and even sewed a patch on a pair of torn shorts. I freakin' sewed, man!

And she had the gall to ask me if I'd be her wife! I got news for you, honey, you got a wife- and this one doesn't menstruate, holds doors for you and can fix a leaky toilet to boot!

(Did I just write that? Can I tell you how happy I am to have a job lined up right now? And one that carries the masculine-sounding title of Park Ranger, no less? Because if I keep this up I may very well begin menstruating one of these days, and I'm moody enough as it is so we don't need that.)

Here's a picture of me and my bunnywabbit husband:

And here's a belated photo from our Guitar Hero jam session, photo courtesy of Julie (and goddamn that lead singer is hot; it's a shame he's such a woman):