Last night my self image up and died.

I’ve always been skinny, almost anorexic actually, and I’ve never needed to exercise to maintain my Schwarzenegger inspired model-esque physique. But last night it was explained to me, in no uncertain terms, that I was no longer the rail thin, super-skinny, sex god of my youth.

Don’t misunderstand; I’m still a sex god. Just not such a thin and fit one, is all.

In fact, over the last year or so, I think I’ve developed a ‘Gamers Pooch’. You know, the slightly distended belly of someone who spends as much time as possible in front of a computer or television instead of doing anything that might be mistaken as exercise? It’s gotten so bad, and my body is so out of shape, that attempting to do even a single pushup might send me into immediate cardiac arrest. Eating a salad, or lord forbid a granola bar, could very well cause my colon to explode as if I were a suicide bomber on a bus in Israel.

And so, I refused to exercise so the world would not lose its one true Geek.

All that changed last night. As I was getting into bed I turned around to pick something up off the floor. As I did so, I heard HoBiscuit give a quick gasp and then burst out in a fit of giggles. Not understanding what was so funny, I turned around to face the bed and saw her lying there and pointing at me, laughing so hard she was crying.

“What’s so funny, HoBiscuit?”
[giggling and pointing]
“You shouldn’t be pointing at my crotch and laughing, honey. I told you it shrinks when it’s cold out. Or when it’s frightened.”
[giggling becomes hysterical]
“Come on, honey. I’m too tired for this. What’s so frickin funny?”
“Your ass.”
[More laughing]
“Sigh. My ass. And what about my ass is so funny?”
“I can see it!”

Oh. Crap.

I had a hole in my pajamas. A really, REALLY big hole. Now, granted these pajamas are about 7 years old and I wear them almost every night, but still, one would think I’d notice a new hole in them large enough to accommodate another leg. But I hadn’t, and now HoBiscuit would, as was her right, make fun of me for the next several weeks.

[singsong voice]
“Fat ass! Fat ass! GeekMan’s got a fat ass!”
[/singsong voice]

So, now I need to start exercising again so I can banish not only my Gamers Pooch, but also my very own big, fat ass. Does anyone know if channel surfing can be considered as part of a daily workout schedule?

No? Stupid, stupid slowing metabolism.

I don’t like to eat leftovers.

To my male friends this is perfectly acceptable; to the lovely HoBiscuit however, this is a crime of such heinous proportions that flogging would be too good for me. She feels that if I cook a meal for the two of us and we don’t finish the entire thing in one setting, that we MUST save the leftovers and eat the exact same meal the following night.

Even if all that’s left over is one frickin taco.

It’s even worse when we go out to dinner. It’s gotten so bad that I’m actually frightened to ask her if she wants to eat out. It’s true! If I order some food and don’t finish everything on my plate HoBiscuit will give me *The Look™ and I’ll find myself quivering in a corner begging for forgiveness for the rest of the night.

*The Look™ is a skill passed down to women, from Mother to Daughter, ever since the first caveman pissed off the first cavewoman. The Look™ has one single use, and that is to put the FEAR OF GOD in any man or child who pisses off said woman. If you have never been the recipient of The Look™ then count yourself lucky and join a men only monastery before it’s too late.

I’m not kidding. It’s frickin scary.

Now, I don’t know exactly where it’s written, but somewhere within the Holy Books of Immaculate Foodology there must be a passage that says something like;

And spaketh He, “Ifith thou dost not cleaneth thy plate at every meal, whether it be at thine own table or upon the table of stranger or friend, thou shalt burn in the fiery pits of the netherworld and forevermore be forsaken from the gates of my kingdom.” So spaketh He, so it is written and so it shall be done.

Can I get an Amen?

Anywaste, we fight all the time about leftover food. I don’t like to eat it, no matter how artfully it’s concealed under sauces, cleverly mixed with other leftovers or shockingly re-spiced. Meanwhile HoBiscuit gets angry with me whenever I suggest eating out or ordering in if we have even one plastic container of leftover mystery meat. I’m scared to eat in my own home unless HoBiscuit gives my choice of food the nod. And now, she’s getting upset with me when I won’t make food decisions without her input due to my fear of The Look™. She’s beginning to think I’m a helpless moron, but I’m not. I just don’t feel safe eating anything anymore unless she tells me I can.

For some reason, that makes her even angrier.

Oh well, I guess this is all part of learning to live together and getting married. Fighting over leftovers will just be one of those things we’ll do as a couple that will drive us, and everyone around us, crazy. We’ll just have to learn to live with it. That reminds me, Honey? Can I make myself a sandwich for lunch, or should I eat the leftover taco first?

Call me, I’m hungry.

You are a frickin Moron.

When next you get the urge to install Sony Clie versions of the Palm desktop onto your computer at 11pm on a Sunday night, do your level best to resist the temptation. If you are unable to resist and you actually begin the installation process you will not be surprised to find that problems arise causing your computer to freeze and then refuse to boot. At that point in your horrid, sorry excuse for a life, you must try your frickin hardest to accept your own stupidity and simply turn off the computer and wait until a more reasonable hour to troubleshoot.

For example, 3:00 pm on Doomsday, the Day of Ultimate Judgment.

Whatever you do, do not, I repeat, do not use Windows System Restore to try and save your Geeky anus. Especially at 1:30 in the morning the day before a very important conference call during which you abso-frickin-lutely know you will need to use your computer. Doing so will only lead to heartache and pain.

And cursing. Lord forbid we forget the cursing.

In conclusion, the next time HoBiscuit politely asks you to install something on the computer, think carefully before attempting to help her. Should you somehow find that you have inadvertently gone ahead and installed the Palm software, leading to the System Restore fiasco, and culminating in a frantic attempt to rebuild an entire computer’s software installation and preferences overnight, allow me, that is, you, to offer these last few words of advice.

Don’t be frickin stupid. Buying her a new Clie sure beats going to jail for murder.

Can anyone explain this to me?

When I was living alone, doing laundry was a simple task. Put all my clothes into a laundry bag, take said bag to the Laundromat and then pick them up the next day. Overnight, my laundry would be magically cleaned, fluffed and expertly folded so that the only thing I needed to do on my own was put them into the proper drawers in the dresser.

And then came HoBiscuit the Taskmaster.

Now, not only am I supposed to do my own laundry, but I have to do hers as well. And let me tell you understanding the finer points of washing sweaters ( ‘delicate’ cycle only, extra spin and then medium dry) versus delicates (‘gentle’ cycle, low dry) versus blouses (‘gentle’, hang dry) is enough to drive anyone mad. But what makes it even worse is that apparently my clothes don’t warrant such attention. The only excuse she seems willing to give me is that my clothes are somehow ‘stronger’ than hers when it comes to washing care.

Why her jeans need to be carefully and meticulously turned inside out before washing while mine are simply thrown into the washer as is, is beyond me.

But all of that is peanuts when you take into account the horrible affront to my clothings’ civil liberties that HoBiscuit enacts each and every laundry day. It is horrible, simply horrible. Do you know what she’s doing? She’s teaching me to segregate my laundry, you know, separate the colors from the whites? Wasn’t that made illegal with the thirteenth Amendment to the Constitution? I tried that argument with HoBiscuit, but she simply ignored me and went about her business telling me that I should stop my whining and grow up.

Well my friends, I have a Dream.

[begin Martin Luther King, Jr. voice]

I have a Dream.

I have a Dream that one day every Washer shall be exalted, every Bleach and Softener shall be made low, the Dryer Sheet will be made unnecessary, and the Single Loader will be made Double, and the glory of the Laundry shall be revealed, and all Fabrics shall see it together.

I have a Dream that one day, White clothing, and Dark Clothing, and clothes of all the colors of the rainbow can be washed together in peace and harmony.

This is my hope. This is the faith with which I return to the Doing Of Laundry. With this faith I will be able to hew out of the Mountain Of Dirty Clothes a Sock Of Hope. With this faith I will be able to transform the tattered remains of my favorite T-Shirt into a beautiful Sweater. With this faith I will be able to work, to pray, to struggle, and to stand up for righteousness, knowing that my clothes will be free one day.

That will be the day when all of Geek’s clothing will be able to sing with a new meaning, “My clothing, ’tis of thee, sweet clothes that are dirty, of thee I sing. Wash where my colors died, wash of the Snuggles pride, from every Cheer and Tide, let freedom ring.”

Let Freedom Ring!

When we let freedom ring, when we let it ring from every Sit-N-Spin and every Wash-N-Go, from every Bubble Heaven and every Spot-Less, we will be able to speed up that day when all the world’s Clothing, black clothes and white clothes, silk and cotton, nylon and rayon, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Laundromat spiritual,

“Clean at last! Clean at last! Thank God Almighty, we are clean at last!”

[end Martin Luther King, Jr. voice]

Sunday was one of those days.

It started out innocently enough, HoBiscuit and I were going to visit the GeekMom, GeekGrandparents and then check on the Ho-Parents house, since they’re away on vacation for three weeks. And, even though it was a cold and rainy day and we didn’t really want to go; we got up early in the morning to pick up MotherGeek. Of course, being the Geek that I am, I knew that my day would involve at least one person I saw demanding that I ‘fix’ something before it was over.

What I didn’t expect was everyone to ask me to fix everything.

GrandmaGeek greeted us at the door with the heartwarming phrase, “That stupid man. He’s driving me crazy!” Quickly followed by the traditional Geek welcome of, “GeekMan, you need to look at the computer…” This soon degenerated into a screaming match between Grandma and GrandpaGeek as they blamed each other for ‘breaking’ the computer. Of course, their idea of a broken computer meant that the shortcut to Mahjong had disappeared and they hadn’t been able to play it in the last 12 hours.

Tragedy.

After ‘fixing’ the computer, I was offered a frozen steak as a reward and then asked to fix their radio, fire alarm, answering machine and telephone. When they began asking if I thought the couch might look better on the other side of the room I grabbed HoBiscuit and MotherGeek and beat a hasty retreat. Just as we were leaving however, GeekMom informed HoBiscuit and I that we just had to visit a friend of hers before we went to HoBiscuits parents house.

That’s when this giant vein on the right side of my forehead began throbbing.

On the way to MotherGeek friends’ house Mom explained a little problem she was having with her cell phone and asked me to take a look at it. Well, by ‘asked me to take a look at it’ I really mean she demanded I fix her phone right then and there, while I was driving and before we got to her friends house.

Throb. Throb.

When we got to her friends’ house we were invited inside under the pretense of seeing her new kitten. And, as if she were the lead in a really bad high school play, she “suddenly” remembered a few computer questions she had conveniently written down on three, legal-paper-sized, college-ruled pieces of paper.

THROB. THROB.

After managing to escape that sub-basement of the lower regions of Hell, HoBiscuit and I drove through almost two hours of traffic to her parents’ house. On the way there, I received two phone calls for tech support from my Uncle and one from a friend. Seeing my growing distress HoBiscuit suggested we stop off at a local Worst Buy and pick up some CD-Rs that were on sale. As we were paying for the CD-Rs I had to explain to the cashier how to scan in the coupons so we would get the proper discount!

Throb. Throb.

Finally, HoBiscuit and I reach her parents house where she needs to check the mail and water the plants. Just as we walk in the door HoBiscuit turns to me and sheepishly asks that I look at her parent’s computer because it’s been giving them some problems lately. And, just as my throbbing vein was about to burst from my skull and drench her with my life’s blood as I collapsed to the floor in a convulsing heap, she kisses me and says,

“You’re the best, most patient and loveable man in the whole wide world. I love you.”

Oh sure, I knew it was a ploy to get me to fix her parent’s computer without getting angry at her. And I also knew that it meant the computer was probably FUBARed and it would take me hours to fix as I sat in their ice-cold home wondering if both my testicles would freeze solid, or just the weaker one as they fought for the squatting rights to my body’s gonad cavity. I knew all this and yet I still found myself smiling back at her and agreeing to fix the computer no matter how long it took or how cold I was. And do you know why everyone treats me this way and why I always find myself fixing things for people no matter how annoying inconvenient or time consuming it might be for me?

That’s right. Because I’m stupid, that’s why.

THROB. THROB.