My Husband Francois

The old man has a quirk that bothers me. It's not anything criminal. It's just, well, quirky.

He wrote me an e-mail today, asking me to remind him to write some "cheques." His preferred spelling of "cheques" irritates me for no good reason. I know I shouldn't let it get to me.

But please. Where does he think we are? In the middle of Provence?

He might.

On occasion, he does develop a pronounced French accent. "Ah, mon cheri," he'll whisper between kisses up and down my arm, "come with me to zee boudoir."

Somehow he's convinced himself that this accent helps get me "in the mood."

Despite my protestations, he will persist. "I zee the lovelight in your eyes, mon cheri. Now come with me."

I usually end up going with him, hoping that this will be the time that I get to watch reruns of "The Addams Family."

Scoring

This afternoon, I tossed a pair of socks from the side of the bed into the laundry hamper.

"Say," I asked the old man, "if I shoot a pair of socks into the hamper and they both go in, but it's with a single shot, does that count as two points or four points?"

"Four points, I think," he said. "It's minus four if you miss," he added as he picked up a t-shirt that caught the edge of the hamper and slid to the floor.

I think I should get points just for picking up the piles of clothes Adventure Girl leaves all over the house.