I think HW is mad at me.

And here the younger portion of the audience is thinking, "I wonder what she said to him?" To which I (and every man with a long-term significant other) reply: HA. HA HA HA. Hold for a moment whilst I repair my split sides with duct tape and crazy glue. Wait, no, not yet: my guffaws continue unabated.

Okay, much better.

Anyway, what I was getting at, in that lengthy paragraph of drivel that spewed forth from my brain like goo from a toothpaste tube being run over by a Peterbilt, is that when a woman is mad at you, she's not going to come straight out and TELL you that she's mad at you. The reasons for this are two-fold:

1. If she tells you, then SHE is "a bitch."
2. If she DOESN'T tell you, and you never figure it out, then YOU are the insensitive clod that should have KNOWN something was wrong.

So no, she hasn't said anything. But her behavior of late has been very bizarre. For example, recently she has started replacing toilet paper rolls. Normally, this would be a good thing, as her ancient habit has always been to get a fresh roll out and then just sit it on top of the john (this is the way it's done in her family because certain members thereof have a tendency to play with the paper if it's properly mounted on the dispenser, and we all know who you are, SuZann).

However, she has strangely mounted the new rolls such that the paper is dispensed from the BOTTOM of the roll, instead of the top. Which is just disturbing. I mean, what person in their right mind would want to dispense paper from the bottom? It's harder to tear off, for one thing, and aside from that it's just frickin' UN-AMERICAN. I guess it might make it harder for the cats to play with the rolls, but we only have one cat that does that, and she's the same one that treats the entire basement as her personal bathroom, so she's about one more warm puddle removed from a ghastly demise.

Also, she (Sarah, not the basement-peeing cat) has taken to locking the front door, which is nice in that it makes us safer from the violent cretins that walk the streets in our neighborhood, except that inevitably she only locks either the knob or the deadbolt if I'm not home. This is like putting on half a condom: probably technically safe, but if you're going to go to the trouble, why not go the whole way? Plus it drives me nuts when I come home, get my key out, put it in the doorknob, realize it's unlocked, try to open the door, and bash my forehead against the door because the deadbolt is still latched. (I tend to lead with my head when I walk because my skull is impervious to injury.) It goes without saying that this happens most frequently when my hands are full of various jaunpiece.

You could also argue that she demonstrated her anger a bit more clearly when she stabbed me with a meat fork on Thanksgiving, but in our house, violence is a manifestation of great love, just like when we scream insults at each other and cause the neighbors to call social services.