Jul. 07, 2004 - 12:49 p.m.

NewWifey(tm) and I have now been married for three years.

I have to tell you, these have been the best three years of my life. Perhaps we can chalk it up to having many of the same interests, which is how we met. Or maybe it's because she has such low standards in men. Or I'm so desperately ugly I know that if I fuck this up I'll never be able to wrangle another date with a (human) female again. Whatever the reason, we get along famously, as the wag said. In fact, for all the silly misadventures I've detailed here occasionally, NewWifey(tm) and I have never actually gotten into a fight. Come to think of it, the last time we even engaged in a "spirited disagreement" was when we became engaged and she took mild exception to my still having three Fuck Buddies. (We ended up compromising. I trimmed that number to approximately "zero", and she put the gun down.)

So this past Sunday was the, uh, six hundreth and something anniversary of our country's liberation from the iron grip of Norwegian colonialism.

And the Third Anniversary (plus 4 days) of my liberation from the clutches of free spirited, free farting, wanton booty calling, porn guzzling, gin soaked, public ball scratching Singlehood.

Thank god THAT hell is over.

In commemoration of one of those two events, I decided to throw an absolute wingding of a hoedown of a fete of a shindig of a party (hey, my new leather bound dictionary comes with a thesaurus!). And other than a few unexpected moments concerning uninvited wildlife and intractable minerals, the only real disaster turned out to be the blow job, of all things.

If you read either of my last two entries you know that I went through literal hell deciding on, then actually purchasing, a leather themed gift for NewWifey(tm). I actually even let a gay guy touch my elbow (from which I've recovered, thank you to all who were concerned enough to inquire).

Oh, what did I end up getting her? Well after weighing all my options, my coin purse, and your opinions...I went with the first thing I saw.

Which turned out to be a, uh, bag of some sort. I dunno, I don't do "business", and this was some kind of business baggy thingy. But NewWifey(tm) was thrilled. Turns out she'd wanted one ever since getting her promotion, and praised me for having actually paid attention when she mentioned it back then. I have no recollection of said conversation, but I nodded and looked proud of myself anyway.

(If you require a better description, it's a hand tooled Italian leather lady's soft briefcase. What makes it a "lady's" briefcase? It's got a slot! Ho! Ho! Ho! *Ahem* Actually, it looked like it had more rounded lines than the men's model, and a smaller handle. Inside is an attached leather-clad makeup mirror and compact kit, plus some other accesories, like a leather detachable cell phone holder, and a nifty padded notebook computer cover. The whole thing is butter soft, the kind of leather you imagine Anna Nicole Smith's pre-TrimSpa skin would make. And even better (for me), I found it on a clearance rack! That brought it down to just under what a comparable Coach bag was retailing for, and I was just drunk enough at the time that that seemed reasonable.)

Now, you'd think that an expensive, thoughtful, impressive gift like that would be the centerpiece of ANY celebratory affair, wouldn't you?

Well you'd be wrong, simpleton.

I'm Italian.

The centerpiece of ANY meeting that lasts longer than it will take you to read this sentence is food. Even the much vaunted oral skills of NewWifey(tm) can be rendered forgotten in an instant by the appearance of a particularly toothsome platter. (Sorry honey....)

And Sunday I went all out.

Now, I like meat. Meat meat meat. If it has huge doe eyes and roams freely on this earth, I want to eat it. Throw on a Ted Nugent track and hand me a knife. And watch your fingers. I have trouble just driving by road kill. One of my culinary heroes was the silent film cowboy Tom Mix. Once at a Hollywood reception dinner, he had piled his plate high with flesh from various varmints and sat down. A society matron nearby piped up and asked, "Sir, don't you eat vegetables?" Our Hero thought a minute, then answered "I once ate a pea..."

Unfortunately, a radio traffic reporter's salary is not conducive to a 100% animal protein diet. But I do what I can. Which means cheaper cuts, as a rule. Luckily, having had some training in the matter, I can usually make them palatable by waving my magic spatula and employing a number of culinary tricks. For instance we often have have slow roasted, barded, Sirloin Tip - normally a cut with the consistancy of Kevlar, but when treated correctly yields a succulent roast...at 7 dollars a pound less than Rib Roast.

But NewWifey(tm) is from the Land Of Beef (Kansas City). She looks with disdain on my frou-frou preparations of lesser cuts, with their fancified French names and even more outlandish cooking styles. Unless it's a T-Bone on the grill, or better yet a broiled Filet Mignon, it just. Ain't. Beef.

As I said though, a traffic reporter's paycheck does not allow for her definition of beef very often. Ever, as a matter of fact.

But...it WAS our third anniversary. I gave in and splurged. At the butcher's I asked for "two nice Porterhouse steaks, please." (If you're not familiar with that cut, it's a T-Bone with a larger portion of the Filet Mignon attached.)

The butcher picked out two nice ones, as ordered.

And charged me forty three dollars and fifty three cents.

Two steaks!!

My god - it's been so long since I've sprung for the expensive cuts that I'd forgotten cattle have become an endangered species!

I kept my mind on the blow job and forked over the MasterCard. Add potatoes, artisinal bread, leeks, fresh asparagus, plus an assortment of cheeses, and the tab for that one meal was pushing the price of my first car.

And when you factor in the wine....

Some here may recall my mentioning that I collect wine, and have a small but impressive cellar. Normally I wouldn't waste one of these gems on a mere wife, but...aw heck, she really DOES give good...well, y'know. I decanted a 1988 Ridge "Geyserville" Zin into my best decanter - it seemed patriotic to go American on the 4th.

Buy noon eveything was prepped and proceeding swimmingly.

The locus of the meal was to be the steaks of course, but the dishes orbiting around it needed attention also. The asparagus were marinating in a garlicky oil, and 5 at a time were skewered together into rafts. The leeks were split lengthwise, marinating seperately in oil, lime juice, tarragon and pepper. Both would be grilled after the steaks were pulled off and resting. And the potatoes would be thrown unadorned onto the live coals, as Nature intended.

Ah, the coals.

Remember how I said that NewWifey(tm) and I have never had a fight? Well we came damn close to fisticuffs over those coals. Damn close.

See, I had recieved for Christmas a nice portable Coleman grill. I like it because it can use either charcoal OR propane, whereas my large deck grill only allows for gas. I've been itching to try it for some time but couldn't justify going to the effort of opening the box, turning a couple of wingnuts and reading the instructions. Until now. This seemed the perfect opportunity. As everyone knows (or should), Hank Hill is dead wrong. Cow tastes better cooked over live coals, not farty smelling air.

So I opened the box, turned a couple of wingnuts, and started reading the manual. Huh. It seems that for better heat distribution, and to catch grease drippings that might flare up, you're supposed to spread an inch thick layer of sand underneath the charcoal grate.

"Honey, where do we keep our sand?"

"...what?"

"Our sand. Didn't we buy a couple big bags of sand when we were grading under the porch last year? Did we use it all?"

"Uh yeah, we did. What do you need sand for though? I though you were cooking steaks?"

"I am. But the instructions for the grill says I need to pour some sand in. I've gotta find some sand."

"That's ridiculous - that fucker is solid steel! Just pour the coals in and light it, already."

"Yeah but, see..heat distribution, and, uh, flare-ups and stuff. You're supposed to use sand...."

"Listen, I'm from Kansas City. As in Kansas "Eat Beef Or Die" City. I was grilling whole sides of beef before you'd even made your first stupid Pate au Choux. Now shut up, light the chimney starter, and let's have some steaks!"

I was now in a quandry. NewWifey(tm) is indeed well schooled in Steakology. But the manual said...

I decided to trust the Coleman factory.

"I'm going to get some sand!"

"Nobody's open today! It's the Fourth of July! IDIOT!"

I roared off in the Mighty WRK. I knew all the stores were closed, of course.

But the beach wasn't.

On my way out the garage I grabbed the little plastic bucket and scoop we keep for some of NewWifey(tm)'s gardening adventures. We live technically in a Lake Community, although the murky pond that gives us that designation hardly seems worth it. I think the town just gets to charge us higher taxes by doing so, and would call us a "Lake Community" if they merely had a leaking water main. Nonetheless, this muky pond does have a small beach. A sand beach.

One thing I had neglected was to change clothes. On a beach full of shorts, thongs and zinc oxide, I was decked out in chinos, Spaulding high top basketball shoes, and a cooking apron that said "Kiss Me, I'm a Priest!" The off duty cop who checks badges at the gate asked me what I was doing.

"I'm, uh, gonna build a sand replica of Washington crossing the Nile. For the Fourth of July...."

It didn't work. I took my empty pail and drove home.

Meanwhile, NewWifey(tm) had actually relented somewhat and was trying to be of some help in my absence.

"Look, if you're determined to do this, I found something that might help. We don't have any sand, but I remembered this bag of decorative river stones I was saving for landscaping trim, and you can try them. Stones are just humongous sand, right? They should do the trick."

She had a point. Stones ARE good heat sinks. I had some concerns about their ability to absorb grease splatter, but I kept them to myself. I emptied a bunch into the sink and rinsed them off, since they were still wet with water and mud from wherever they'd been dredged up.

A half hour later I had a bed of glowing charcoal on a grate over a layer of decorative river stones. Everything looked perfect. The Coleman fit both Porterhouses as if taylor made for just those two, and the heat immediately seared in perfect looking grill marks. After 7 minutes I flipped them and went to grab the veggies.

No sooner had I picked up the tray of asparagus when I (and the rest of the neighborhood) heard:

KA-POW!!!

What the...?

"What the hell was that?" yelled NewWifey(tm) as she came sprinting in from the computer room. "Did you drop the grill or something?"

I was already dashing back to the patio to see for myself what in the world had exploded. It sounded like some of the car bomb audio I've been hearing in our news feeds. Was Al Quaeda targetting Vernon, New Jersey now? Had our Black Bears decided to revolt?

I opened the screen door just in time to hear the warm summer air shattered by another KABLAMMM! and watch one of the steaks leap about 8 inches into the air!

Oh no! They're targetting my steaks!

My forty three dollar steaks!

I stood there dumbfounded, confused. Why were my steaks exploding??

Within seconds I got my answer. In quick succession there were two more blasts, and the second of these launhed a small projectile that missed my left ear by a c-h. And I saw it! It had shot out of the grill!

Whatever it was, it had landed on our lawn and was charring a circle of grass around it. I carefully picked it up with my tongs.

It was a river stone!

Or rather, a piece of a river stone. It seems that after months of sitting in a muddy, wet bag, those porous river stones had become hard little sponges. When a bed of live coals was placed over them, that internal water had turned to steam, and soon the pressure became so great that -

BLAMMMM!!

More and more rocks were blasting apart now, the impacts causing my beautiful steaks to do some bizarre jig, as if possessed by Michael Flatley's Guernsey. I had to save them!

Grabbing a platter and the largest stock pot lid I could find, I advanced on the grill like a Roman Gladiator. I took two direct hits to the lid, which honestly stung like a mother, but made it to the Coleman and plucked both steaks from mid-air. Then I retreated back to the safety of the kitchen, where NewWifey(tm) and I peered out through the window at the BBQ fireworks we had unleashed.

It really didn't last much longer. The rocks must have each absorbed similar ammounts of water, so they all expelled it at about the same rate. I'd say within 5 minutes the explosions and projectiles had died down. No windows broken, luckily. I went back out and peered into the Coleman. Not one single rock remained, they'd all been rent to shards. Most suprising to me was that the potatoes were unscathed! Through absolute sheer luck, both our spuds had been missed completely.

The steaks were still raw though, and coals were still hot, so...back on the grill.

The rest of the operation went smoothly, and the steaks were none the worse for having had a mid-grilling hiatus. The leeks, the asparagus rafts, both cooked up perfectly, and by the time they were done the Porterhouses had rested to where they could be sliced. I asked NewWifey(tm) to set our patio table, as it was such a beautiful day it would be a shame to dine indoors.

While I was slicing, plating and decanting, NewWifey(tm) laid out dishes, silverware, the good linen, stemware, a basket of bread, sea salt, pepper, sour cream, butter, ramekins of chopped chives, shallots, olives and cheeses. Then she unfurled the patio umbrella, a 12 foot wide green and white striped monster that slowly opens via a crank handle at the base. It looked beautiful, right out of 'Home and Garden'.

I carried out platters of meat and veggies, then went back for the wine which I'd just decanted.

When I set the decanter down and was about to be seated myself finally, I saw that NewWifey(tm) was swatting at something.

"I think there's a bee attracted to our food" she said.

I looked at the yellow and black insect dodging her hand.

"Uh, honey, that's a hornet. Why don't you go back in the kitchen for a minute and let me take care of it."

NewWifey(tm) didn't have to be asked twice. She a tough, motorcyle racin', power tool slingin', hard lovin' wench of a broad, but she's a hysterical 8 year old little girl when confronted by bees. Or spiders. Or any insectile creature, actually. Hey, we all have our Kryptonite.

While she cowered inside the spice cupboard I grabbed a rolled up magazine and prepared to do battle. One of my few masculine traits is that I do not quail at the prospect of going head to thorax with these little buggers. Er, bugs. My eyes narrowed to slits and the hunt was on.

Twap! Whap! Whoosh!

He was a wiley opponent, skittering away just as my copy of Boobs-n-Guns started its downward arc every time. But finally....

Splat!

He zigged when he shoulda zagged, and the full weight of Miss April and her Glock G18C slammed into his soft, poison filled body. He was no match, and no more. I turned to call NewWifey(tm) to the table.

And saw probably 20 more hornets bearing down on me, butts extended in Attack Mode!

AAAAUUUGHHH!!

I may be a manly man in a one-on-one fight with a hornet, but I'm right there with NewWifey(tm) in the spice cupboard if I have to take on the whole hive. Miss April was just not up to the task.

I ducked under the swarm and bolted for the screen door. Where had they all come from? I looked out and saw more and more descending, swirling around my carefully crafted feast.

Descending!

What were they descending FROM, I wondered. I squatted down and looked up, up to the top of the green and white patio umbrella.

Sure enough, hanging between the pleats in the uppermost region was a roughly five inch long, football shaped paper hornets' nest. And it was spewing out hornets.

"What are we gonna do?" asked NewWifey(tm), who had emerged when she heard me come back inside.

I studied the situation. My gut reaction was to sell the house and move to the International South Pole Research Station. There are no bees there. But then I looked at all that food, that wine that I'd been carefully husbanding for at least 10 years, all just sitting there. Forty three dollar steaks!

All being eaten by...hornets!

"Go grab me two fans and some extension cords" I told NewWifey.

We have several fans arranged at strategic points in our house, to distribute the cold air blowing from our sole air conditioner. It works pretty well, and saves on energy bills, but it does take huge honkin' fans to accomplish the task. You could prbably build your own wind tunnel around one of these things, as a matter of fact. I snagged them when they demolished an old manufacturing plant some years ago. I figured if they were strong enough to suck a warehouse full of PCB's out across half our state, they were strong enough to pull a few cubic feet of cool air down my hall. And strong enough to blow the fuck out of a family of insects.

I was right. We didn't even have to open the screen door. We positioned one on either side of the porch, pointed slightly up to keep the table from blowing over, then flipped the "On" switches simultaneously. The big blades took a few seconds to slowly build up steam, and then....

FFFFWHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMM.........

Two rivers of air, probably 20 psi each, slammed into the porch umbrella, lifting it bodily over the porch rail and halfway across our neighbor's yard. The hornets were not far behind, tumbling and buzzing frantically.

"QUICK!" I yelled, "Before they regroup!"

Off went the fans and we dashed out to grab our booty. Dishes, silverware, the good linen, stemware, a basket of bread, sea salt, pepper, sour cream, butter, ramekins of chopped chives, shallots, olives and cheeses - all were hurredly snatched off the patio table and moved to the inside dining room. And of course, the steaks. Fortunately all we lost was a bunch of chives, a few slices of bread, and the linen. Otherwise, our aim proved to be fortuitous. Even the stemware escaped intact, having blown over right into the sour cream.

Well, it wasn't the romantic al fresco setting we'd hoped for, but it was still a wonderful meal. The excitement/terror ultimately served to whet our appetite, if anything. Like people who've had a near-death experience, our subsequent experiences were savored oll the more keenly. We ate and drank and laughed, and it was all nectar.

And then we fucked.

Actually, it was the promised and much anticipated Blow Job. Now NewWifey(tm) is no slacker in that department. She throws herself into the task with enviable gusto, without any prompting on my part, at every available opportunity. I am not wanting for that sort of attention, and am the chafed envy of many of my friends (to whom I've regailed time and again her exploits....sorry, honey).

So why was THIS particular blow job much anticipated, when I barely have time to dry off between sessions as it is?

Well because...it was our Anniversary. At any auspicious event - birthday, anniversary, Christmas, vernal equinox, UPS delivery - she feels the need to top her previous efforts in order to make it feel *special* for me. New "toys" are produced, or maybe ice cubes, warming oils, videos, costumes - you name it, she'll try it. Holidays are a thrilling adventure for me.

So when we hopped in the sack and she produced a blindfold, a can of aerosol whipped cream, and a vibrating egg I wasn't suprised in the least. She pushed me back on the bed, tore my pants off with her teeth...paused to toss an excited Welsh Corgi out the bedroom door...than rammed the blinfold over my head.

I don't know how she does it, but NewWifey(tm) is infinitely creative. I mean, for all my sick imagination, I would be hard pressed to come up with half as many variations on a theme that she rattles off effortlessly. I really was worried when I first saw that egg that she meant to do a Liberace on me, something she's threatened me with before but I've always balked at. However, I never should have supsected her of something so insidious. What she actually did was, she placed the egg in her mouth, rolling it under her tongue and around her cheeks the entire time!

Oh my GOD.

Have you ever been immersed in something so intensely overwhelming that you've had an out of body experience? I swear I was looking down on the scene from somewhere up around the ceiling fan, viewing my own private porno, starring ME!

Yeesh, I needed to lose weight.

Other than that observation, it was total sensory overload. I lost all conscious will.

And then...the whipped cream.

"Eh" I hear you say. "Ain't nuthin' specil about that. Heck, my Mamma taught me that trick when I was 12."

Ha. Not THIS trick she didn't.

NewWifey(tm) held the can UPRIGHT so that after a few seconds the cream stopped flowing...but the nitrous oxide still shot out.

The cold nitrous oxide.

That first blast of supercooled gas jolted me right back into my body. What a contrast! By carefully aiming at one small spot, then quickly warming that area with her mouth, she orchestrated a finely choreographed succession of cold/hot/dry/wet sensations from root to tip. I never knew where the next stab would land, and it was driving me out of my mind. I think she knew she had to calm me down after a few minutes of that because she tossed the can aside, turned off the egg, and returned to just a rhythmic bobbing.

But it was just a ruse.

I was finally starting to breath again, color coming back to my face, when she stealthily reached for the gas cannister. I couldn't see it, and didn't hear it coming. But I sure felt it...

PSSST

Just a short burst, but so unexpected, so cold, and SO RIGHT ON MY BALLS that I jerked every limb involuntarily. It was a violent, spastic jerk. And...

My right knee clipped the side of NewWifey(tm)'s head as she was uvula deep!

Her gag reflex following the blow was immediate, a sobbing, choking sound bleating out as her head whipped to one side. But as she began to pull out, her jaws started to clamp down!!

It was over in under a second, but at the time it was happening I could discern every movement as if each millimeter took a full minute to traverse. It was a cartoon style race, the tip of my glans clearing the Razor Sharp Gates Of Death with no time to spare before they slammed shut, severing whatever was left within.

I tore the blindfold off and looked down on NewWifey(tm). She had steam coming out of her nostrils. Maybe it was nitrous oxide - it sure FELT icy.

"What the hell did you kick me in the head for?!"

I tried to explain to her that a shot of liquid nitrogen to the testicles provoked a reaction I really had no controll over, but she remained miffed. It turned out that she was piqued not so much from any physical hurt, but rather that she'd been interrupted while having such a good, empowering time.

I, on the other hand, was just relieve to still be a man. Had I not involuntarily jerked backwards when my limbs began to flail, well, Little Elvis would have had to find some means of conveyance other than my body from then on. It was a chilling thought, in more ways than one. (Ooh, who here remembers "Detachable Penis", by Richard Hell and the Voidoids? Old school, baby!)

Well we put our clothes on, squirted whipped cream in each others' mouths which cheered us both up, and went outside to watch Iron Chef.

Where the theme was, I kid you not, Matsutake Mushroom. (Ok, that's not a pic of a matsutake mushroom. The matsutake is indeed very phallic, but this picture was too good to pass up. Just imagine something like this, but a more slender shaft, straighter, and browner. That's a matsutake. Sort of.)

I had to leave the room.

Oh well, I'm sure I'll be fine by NewWifey(tm)'s birthday in a few weeks. Barring any unusual dessert topping accidents, it should be a hum-dinger! So to speak.

(Reminds me of this great old joke: Did you hear that Lorena Bobbit was in a car accident? Yeah, some dick cut HER off! Wheeee!)

So was anyone able to tell I've been drinking steadily the entire time I wrote this? I could!

Take care kids, sorry this was so long. God, I feel like I just posted a hissandtell epic. She's probably bored out her mind by this entry too, having lived it so many times herself.

Oh well, I've gotta get to bed. Be careful where you point that gas, kids. It's funny until someone loses an appendage.

Buono notte!