We were playing Trivial Pursuit last night. It kicked both of our butts all the way to the west coast. (But I still managed to win four pie wedges to Miles' one before we called it quits—just felt the need to add that.)

I'm usually a Trivial Pursuit champ. (My Aunt Brenda has told me for years that my head is full of useless information. One might say that she suffers the same malady...one might say that I take a lot after Brenda.) Last night I just...sucked. The defining moment of the painful experience was when Miles asked me who it was that topped Paul Allen [in 2001] as the second richest man in the world. I hemmed and hawed...clearly unwilling to further demonstrate my ineptitude.

Miles, looking at the answer and feeling compassion for his stupid wife, gave me a hint (which is a big deal because he's usually out for my blood in Trivial Pursuit). He said, "Fill in the blank: I like to dine at the "All You Can Eat ___."

I looked at him incredulously. "Jimmy Buffett is the second richest person in the world!? You've got to be kidding me!"

He leaned over and kissed my forehead. "Warren Buffett, baby. Warren."

"Well that makes a whole lot more sense than Jimmy."

"Funny how that works, isn't it? Ready for bed?"

"Oh, yes. Lead the way."

I know I've written of this before, of this problem Miles has with keys—you know, the metal trinkets with the squiggly edge? Well, he has issues with them. After my near decapitation by his teeth, I stifled the urge to inquire sweetly, "do you have your keys?" upon every departure.

His car has suffered as a result. This is nothing new. However, his neurosis has garnered arrogance. The car is no longer enough of a victim. It has attacked the house.

Upon my house re-entry, I noticed almost immediately that one of our window screens was somewhat...torn and not really there. I questioned, hesitantly, "Did you guys have some rough weather the last three months?" Miles and Jason looked at each other and pondered. They shook their heads. "It's just that one of our screens seems to have suffered some great evil..."

Miles' eyes, more expressive than he'd perhaps like them to be, brightened briefly to those of a great conqueror before dulling to contrite, wary, then crow-eating. "Well, interesting story..." he began.

I was ready for this wildly exotic story, full of elephants, zebras, and proper excuses. My breath caught at the crescendo of his opening. I held it, my eyes bulging from their sockets with unconcealed interest (and lack of oxygen). He cleared his throat. "What a story this must be!" I thought to myself, all hyper, light-headed, and tingly. "I can't WAIT!"

Miles looked at me. "When I arrived home late one night..."

"Here it comes! Oh boy oh boy oh boy! A story to rival all stories!" The marquee of excitement scrolled within my mind.

He continued, "I didn't have my key. I had to break in."

The end.

I exhaled. I sighed. Disappointed, I replied, "Oh."

I bet you're all totally jealous of my ability to deliver those zingers.

Last night, we finished dinner and Miles loaded our dinnerware into the dishwasher as I finished my cherry Jello¹. (as messy as the lad is on his own, I must admit that he is most conscientious of a spotless house while I am in company) He finished the task and sought my attention with his serious, piercing gaze.

"You know how you don't like dining out all of the time? You say you enjoy cooking too much?"

"mmmhmmm...?"

"And as a compromise, you proposed that we pick one night a week and either dine out or order in just that one night."

"It was just an idea—"

"And a good one! But...."

[quizzical Laura look, perhaps an eyebrow raise for good measure]

"I'd rather not eat out at all now that your cooking skills are back in our home."

Now, as my broken body recovers from my cleaning onslaught, I am remembering his comment instead of his Laura-absence-participation in the Clean And Sparkling Home Formally Known As The Dump.

He's a wily guy, all right. On Sunday, after my dismayed look at his landfill-esque car, he muttered, properly ashamed, "You are the organization of my life." And all of the women's lib went flying out the window as I gushed internally, "He needs me!"

♪ We're playing those mind games together
Pushing the barriers, planting seeds  ♪

John Lennon was probably good at manipulating his spouse(s) too.

¹Really, can anyone say, think, write, or type "Jello" without hearing that singsong, "Jay, Eey, Ell, Ell, Oh!"? Gooooood job on the marketing there, boys. It's got a beat and I can spell to it—I was spelling "jello" before I even knew the alphabet!