In the MARTA parking lot this morning, I saw a truck with one of those made-in-a-mall custom decorative license plates on front that said "El Cajon." I'm thinking, "Doesn't cajones mean testicles? What kind of guy would nickname himself, and proudly I guess since it's on the front of his truck, 'The Nut' or 'The Ball' or 'The Testicle'?" However that translates. I confirmed with a Spanish speaking coworker that, yes, cajon would be the singular form of cajones. Maybe truck owner had testicular cancer and had to have one removed and now he's proud of his survivor status and is subtly encouraging others to feel up their nuts on a regular basis in search of lumps. (Is that what guys do? It's what I have to do with my tits.) What about the person who made the plate for him? Did they speak Spanish at all? Couldn't they advise El Cajon that perhaps his choice wasn't the most tasteful ever? Well, I guess not since we're talking about somebody who makes tacky license plates in a mall. I'm guessing El Cajon has a mullet. It's just a hunch. If the truck is still there when I go home, I may have to stake it out. Take a digital camera with me. Share my findings later.

Deb's cold is not any better. The one cold medication either of us can take, Alka Seltzer Effervescent Cold Relief, has been recalled apparently. We can't even find any store brands. At least she got to come home early yesterday, and she doesn't have to go back to work until 3 p.m. today. She looked incredibly pitiful last night, unable to breathe and with red-rimmed eyes. If I could do anything to make her feel better faster, I would. I made last night's dinner for us, so it was yummy Mrs. Callender's chicken pot pie. Poor Deb. I used to know how to cook, but she has completely taken over that role in our household. And she's much better than I ever was. When we first started dating, her most complex dish was spaghetti with cyan pepper in the sauce. Now she sautees, purees, bakes bread, makes her own pesto from home-grown basil, invents her own recipes, has a 1001 uses for olive oil. I wash dishes.

I was also thinking last night about the differences in our home work ethic. I'm lying on the couch, happily watching TV (and bugger me if I didn't record the wrong hour of programming to get the first part of a two-part episode of "Gilmore Girls" last night), while Deb, who's sick as a dog, is fretting about all the chores she needs to get done and feeling guilty because she hasn't done them. The whole rest of the family is like this. Am I just an incredible lazyass? Or are they nuts? Hell, I don't feel bad when there's undone chores and I'm feeling fine and have absolutely nothing else to do. I mean, I'll do the chores eventually, but I've got no problem with taking a nap first. I think slovenly living just doesn't get under my skin they way it does some people. I don't think, if I was living by myself, that I'd let things elevate to sty level, but I really don't think a carpet needs vacuuming until you can see the wads of cat hair on it. Sheets don't need changing until the level of grit actually disturbs your sleep. And certainly a table doesn't need cleaning off until you can't possibly stack any more old mail, newspapers, receipts, books and magazines on top of it.

I'm not a bad person. I'm not a lazy person. I'm just a relaxed person. Welcome to my world�filled with daydreams and happy sighs. Yes, my wife has spoiled me rotten. Bite me.

*****Post Script: Okay, I've been busted enough for my stinky translation of El Cajon. El Cajon, people tell me, is a) a suburb near San Diego, b) the narrow canyon (which has more of a female genetalia connotation, or c) the box (back in the male genetalia reference area here). Let's not pay too much attention to a translation by someone (me) who got a D in high school Spanish, okay? Let's focus on the tangent, people.

Moving on - 12:11 p.m. , 2007-08-14

Where the hell have I been? - 12:10 p.m. , 2007-02-19

Holy shit! - 2:24 p.m. , 2006-01-11

Stuffing recipe - 6:17 p.m. , 2005-12-13

Good Life Update - 10:22 a.m. , 2005-11-11