And as long as I’m narrowing the scope of friends I have not yet offended, I’m going to state here that I am not a fan of facial hair on men.

Generally speaking—and there are rare exceptions—I like a clean shave, and there is no mystery that my preference is directly linked to daddy issues. My father grew a beard during the years before he left my mother, a time in which he was already gone, even if his body and his beard were physically present. He had taken up the guitar back then, and he would sit on the living-room couch, his long body curved around and clinging to the neck as if it were a rescue tube, and he would strum out “Peaceful Easy Feeling” over and over and over again. You can put The Eagles on my Gong List, too.

My husband knows my position, and, over the course of our 13-year relationship, he’s gone to great lengths to respect it. Though he also knows that if he wants to get laid, his chances—with me at least—decrease exponentially with each day the razor sits in its cartridge. The man makes his choices, and as he likes to say when soaping his face for a shave, “A happy life is a happy wife.” He really ought to write a book. Divorce rates would plummet.

His usually clean-shaven state is maintained out of a contractual agreement of sorts, in which I do not wear bangs and which has mostly worked well for us. With the exception of a time a few years back, when our marriage was in trouble and we engaged in a subliminal war of bangs vs. beard, I’ve kept my forehead uncovered and he’s limited his facial hair to a soul patch.

However, this past winter, he stopped shaving, partly out of superstition—his football team was doing well and he didn’t want to jinx it—and partly out of laziness. At which point, I just had to get over myself.

I didn’t have the energy or the right, really, to complain. He does a lot around the house, and I figured he’d earned himself a beard. It’s his face, I decided (I’m gracious like that), and he should do what he wants with it. And anyway, we’re married-with-kid and I have to be honest here: We’re the cliché. It’s not as if we’re having sex all the time and his incentive to keep up the upkeep was—meh. Sex as a tool is pretty ineffective when you’re not having it. Go figure.

When his team eventually lost in the playoffs, he went for a shave at Barber Side on Adams Avenue and, happy that he was going to indulge himself while releasing the demon, I did an end-zone dance. But it was premature because what came of that shave—and the subsequent shaves—was a handlebar mustache. I’d almost rather pet a cat than look at a handlebar mustache.

But my husband is supportive of all my endeavors, even the cockamamie ones; the least I could do was attempt to be supportive of his. Sam was having fun with facial hair, and given that I can change my look with a sweep of Red Stiletto lipstick by Lancôme, it seemed only fair to let him do his thing.

So, I accepted the ’stache when it began to grow. I even acted enthusiastic on its behalf for a while, going so far as to express eye-rolling exasperation when he told me a regular customer had asked him, as if she didn’t get his Halloween costume, “So, who are you trying to be?”

“Whatever,” I said, in solidarity. “Obviously, she doesn’t get it.”

But soon he began to absentmindedly twist it when we were chatting. Sometimes he’d smooth it. Other times, he’d pet it. And then? He started to wax it.

It moved when he spoke, tickled my face when we kissed, and, well—I have officially confirmed that I am not at all interested in Frederic Nietzsche going down on me. I’m glad, though, to have resolved that life-long question. It was keeping me up nights.

So one morning as Sam was leaving for work, just after he’d set my daily cup of coffee on my nightstand, I didn’t say, “Thank you” or “Have a great day, sweetie” or any of the kinds of things that would be appropriate for a woman to say to the man who goes to the store in the middle of the night to bring her back a package of Reese’s Peanut Butter Eggs.

No. I said—in what I thought was a very diplomatic and reasonable tone—“So, honey, tell me. How much longer is the ’stache gonna be with us?”

After that, it was ix-nay on the ustache-may conversation. Like a deviant teenager, I considered making a hair appointment to cut me some bangs while he memorialized the mustache when he renewed his driver’s license. This thing just had to run its course.

In time, he headed to Barber Side and took off the ends, a happy compromise fully rewarded when we had frantic make-up sex in the backseat of my car. While it was parked in the garage. He pulled a hamstring, but still. He got laid. And I got my baby-faced boy in a mustache I can live with.

(As published today in San Diego CityBeat.)

Sam: Well, figure skating is smooth with a series of elements that have to be shown, with dramatic air-type things and turns and jumps and stuff. The ice dancing is more dancey, if you will, with dance moves and lots of those close choppy steps.

Me: What about the long program? Good God, the long programs go on forever.

Sam: I think the longs are more dramatic and the shorts are more whimsical.

Me: Why do people watch this…?

Sam: OHHHHHHH!!! She! Just! Ate! Shit!!! She just went down on the first toss! These are Olympians?!? Isn’t that the whole point: That they defy gravity and don’t fall down? They had four motherfucking years to practice this shit and she falls on the first spin? That’s why people watch this shit! And–and!–you get bitchin’ crotch shots all day. Check it.

Me: “The Way We Were”? For real? Don’t they want people to stay awake for their long program? Hello 1973. Our century doesn’t have any music to choose from.

Sam: I like their little outfitsOHHHHHH!!! She ate shit!!! She went down on the triple salchow! That’s three for three. I don’t know…maybe one fall per deal is normal? I don’t know…Whoooa!!…She almost packed that in! She was starin’ at some serious ice right there…

Me: Okay. I’m gonna go work now.

Ten minutes later, Ruby was handing her pictures over to Miss Sarah. “This is a castle,” I heard her say. I was distracted by her little friend G. who was hurrying to peel away his shoes and socks so I could see how beautiful his pink toenails looked. “And this is Miss Carlee as a princess,” Ruby continued her parallel conversation. I told G. that Ruby’s dad likes to have his nails painted, too. “He likes purples and blues and greens and sometimes sparkles! How cool is that?” I asked him. His mother seemed embarrassed but also relieved at my reaction.

“Thanks for saying that,” she said.

“I’m not making this up,” I told her. “He’s artsy.”

Just then, I turned to see my daughter handing her teacher this:

He’s artsy, alright. He’s 8th grade, trapper-keeper, boy-doodle artsy.

Down there in the lower left quadrant? That is a naked person bending over with an asterisk for a butthole. Up above that guy are two formerly androgynous people drawn “without clothes!” per request of the child. Since Sam decided to make these two clowns G-rated—unlike the blue muscle man bending to pick up a dumbbell—she who is obsessed with all things penis, grabbed a sharpie and filled in the blanks. And then there’s the scary monster thing with hair made of lightning bolts, a squiggly smile and a Sonny Crockett 5 o’clock shadow. Notice the sharpied-on boxer shorts with the open fly. I’m not positive, but given the severe focus of conversation in our home lately, those are either tampon strings or urine running down his leg. Could just as easily be one as the other.

Of course, the upshot—I always like to find an upshot— is that the child is accurate and has some fairly impressive fine motor skills. But back to pre-school.

I saw the drawings and gasped. Then I stammered. So much for having my shit together. I hemmed and hawed and grabbed the paper with less subtlety than I would have liked. “I’ll just take this back home,” I said, withering. “Ruby’s in a phase…she asked Sam to do it and…um…well, we don’t do everything she asks…I mean…she did it.” I was selling out my man and my kid. I was losing credibility. I looked back and forth at the teacher and G.’s mother, apologizing, swearing that we do not normally sit around the house drawing wieners and sphincters. Princesses with giant breasts and “nibbles,” sure. But wieners and sphincters?

No siree.

Normally, we prefer naked dancing.

Could be a shank on a meat hook in a slaughterhouse, could be the leg of a cyclist. I know he wants me to think it’s his leg, but I also know he could never get a tan like that in spin class. Still. I decide it’s his leg and salivate a little. Then he sends this:

I roll my eyes. I giggle. I contemplate how much more enticing a woman’s anatomy is than a man’s and consider taking a female lover. I brush off this impractical college throwback notion and look at the picture again.

Then he sends me another and I have to reconsider:

And then one more comes in and my life flashes before my eyes:

**********************************

What are your middle names?
Mine is Greer. Sam doesn’t have one. That’s right: Doesn’t. Have one. It’s the crack in his façade.

How long have you been together?
Married seven. Together eleven. We’re just a franchise convenience store.

How long did you know each other before you started dating?
Six months from the day we met. It’s a long dramatic story that involved me drunkenly drooling on his pillow long before that first date. One word: Shexay.

Who asked whom out?
He did some speculating, but I had a “boyfriend.” I reciprocated once the “boyfriend” was relieved of his post.

How old are each of you?
We’re both 38 but he’ll be 40 before me.

Whose siblings do you see the most?
Siblings? Do we have siblings?

Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?
The fact that I never think he’s having a good time when we go out. This causes me to ask him repeatedly if he’s having a good time? Are you having a good time? Is everything okay? Are you having fun? Did you have fun? Did you have a nice time? and so on until he’s all, “Woman! I had a fantastic fucking time what the hell do you want from me?!?” 11 years and you’d think I’d get past it.

Did you go to the same school?
Nope. He graduated from University of Wisconsin, Madison in four-and-a-half years without one single loan. I, on the other hand, graduated from the illustrious San Diego State University with more credits than most post-docs and more loans than…look, I don’t want to talk about it.

Are you from the same home town?
Sam’s from the Land of Cheese. I’m from the Land of Funny Underwear.

Who is smarter?
This is a lame question because the answer could knock the are-you-having-a-good-time-at the-party inquisition out of the top spot on the Biggest Marital Issue list. Of course he’s smarter.

Who is the most sensitive?
He’s even. I’m crazier than a shit-house rat.

Where do you eat out most as a couple?
We don’t have a most often. S’how we keep it fresh. We also don’t have a “my side” or “your side” of the bed. And sometimes, if we’re feeling reeeally frisky, we’ll put our heads where our feet go.

Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?
Florence, Italy. Oh, and to the moon. Couple-a times.

Who has the craziest exes?
Oh, Sam takes this one. Definitely. I got the family-crazy all locked up, so it’s only fair if he takes the lead in the loony ex department.

Who has the worst temper?
One of the many indicators that Sam is unbearably dysfunctional is his complete lack of a temper. Therefore, even my teensy, tiny, adorable outbursts look bad in comparison.

Who does the cooking?
I make a super-fly Chicken Pot Pie (let’s have that cook-off, Rachel!) and a deadly chocolate chip cookie. Otherwise, I’m a self-detonating bag of flour. A massive disaster in the kitchen.

Who is the neat-freak?
Sam just loves little boxes and tins and containers. Hidden compartments make him giddy. He organized all of my jewelry for me this past weekend and he begs me not to throw my gym-socks into the hamper inside-out. Need I say more?

Who is more stubborn?
I am not more stubborn. I am not, am not, am not! And that’s final.

Who hogs the bed?
I hog blankets once in a while but as far as the bed goes, we’re respectful of each other’s sleeping space. (Yay! A question that redeems some of my asshole-ish ways.)

Who wakes up earlier?
5:00 AM everyday, baby! (That would be Sam’s wake-up time.)

Where was your first date?
Kate Sessions Park in Pacific Beach. A moonlight walk with the dog. He stood on a park bench to kiss me.

Who is more jealous?
Not me. I’ve given my explicit permission for him to take a concubine. The only caveat is that she wash some dishes and babysit.

How long did it take to get serious?
One year and six months.

Who eats more?
Depends on what’s being served.

Who does the laundry?
Jesus! Who made up these questions? So what if I can’t cook or if I’m not as tidy or if I lose my temper sometimes or if I’ve been prohibited from going near the laundry due to my habit of washing pens and lip gloss? It doesn’t mean I’m not a worthy partner with attributes of my own. It simply means my husband is an enabler.

Who’s better with the computer?
That depends on the perspective. If you want a thoughtful, inquisitive, figure-out-the-inner-workings solution to the problem, Sam’s your man. But if you like something immediate that sounds an awful lot like fists pounding on a keyboard, I’m available in the evenings after 8:00 PM.

Who drives when you are together?
Mostly Sam. I like to be chauffeured so I don’t have to think about traffic can backseat drive. Also, he’s able to take my constant sighing when he misses his exits.

I hit him up for a new pair of shoes, too.

But on a whim, I left work (very) early, sped home in time to freshen my make-up (which didn’t make me look any younger or any less tired) and jump into the mini for an afternoon drive.

We drove to the dry cleaners and then…to Café Chloe (be still my heart!), where we ordered frites and a salad and their delectable mac ‘n’ cheese to share. Since Sam doesn’t eat meat, the owner offered—without me so much as mentioning the possibility—to put the prosciutto only on my half. Imagine that! This bi-polar option is the macaroni and cheese version of the marriage blanket I’ve designed so many times in my head: One half is stuffed with the warmest down feathers known to geese, while the other is nothing more than a whisper-thin sheet. You can guess which side I’d be under.

Prosciutto or no prosciutto, that is the question; it’s important to understand the answer isn’t “either/or”.  You see, the secret to our seven years of marital bliss (and bummers, too, don’t forget those), is that we have the freedom to purchase both smooth and crunchy peanut butter. Seriously. It may sound like nothing, but this was a breakthrough realization for us. Another survival secret? My man knows when to keep his trap shut.

After lunch, we got stuck in a horrendous traffic jam on the way to an antique shop, thanks to some bomb-esque package left on a road that leads to the airport. Cars were lined up in every direction filled, I imagine, with increasingly anxious would-be travelers as they realized their flights would not include them. And while we managed to subvert much of the backlog with Sam’s Bond-like driving techniques, my bladder wasn’t happy with the delay. Leave it to me, I almost ruined the day by snapping at Sam for waiting, unlike Bond, for the light to change at a four-way stop. But he’s patient and loving and probably a little afraid, too, all of which allows me plenty of room to be an ass.

And so our marriage chugs along at a relatively even pace (he’s even; I suffer random and acute muscle spasms). It’s a marathon, not a race, Sam likes to say. It’s about endurance and we’re merely splashing cold water on our faces as we hammer past the third water station.

I got my laptop back on Thursday night, complete with a new hard drive but with all extraneous software removed–including photoshop–rendering it useless for anything more than writing and Fakebooking, the evil online activity that takes the art of procrastination to a whole new level.

Given the new limits of my laptop, I downloaded all the photos I’d taken on Friday night to an external hard drive connected to our desktop computer, the final frontier in my photo processing. And before I could begin editing them and give thanks to the computer gods for having all of my machines in working order, the desktop quit on me. I’ve tried re-booting, I’ve tried zapping the P-Ram (going the two-bong and also the three-bong routes) but: Nada. I’m not allowed past the very first grey page, with the grey apple and the little grey start-up wheel spinning like a fan in taunting eternity.

I very nearly popped a blood vessel while screaming at Sam and now I’m afraid there’s a greater possibility I’ll be served with divorce papers on our anniversary this Tuesday, instead of getting the tattoo I want. After I blew, he high-tailed it out the door to pick up some Thai food, knowing that part of my angst was rooted in low blood sugar and that at least this much he could control. While he was gone, I enjoyed the remainder of my meltdown in private.

But I quit watching television for a gloriously long time and when I came back to him during the past few months, I found that he’d taken a turn down Dramatic Street, steering sharply away from his Edward R. Murrow-style homage in favor of Enquiring-minds-want-to-know antics. I find his “Stupidest Person in the World” as ghastly as O’Reilly’s “Pinhead of the Week” segment. That I even know what the Pinhead segment is makes my aortic valve stick in the closed position.

But.

Sometimes I’m able move past Olbermann’s self-aggrandizing oration and let myself focus on the words. Such as in this video where he absolutely nails It.