And the wind cried Daniel

It is a little past midnight on a Saturday (why do I feel like I am starting to write a Billy Joel song?), and I am sitting at the computer after getting home recently from Target. My feet are killing me. I just planned on going through my email and then going downstairs and taking a shower and going to bed. Because Wifey has a tummy ache (she had a nasty stomach virus a couple of weeks ago and she is still feeling a few aftershocks from this), our plans for the evening were shelved (I really hope I don't need to get any cleared on that for you. If I do, well, go to your parents and tell them that it is time for "The Talk". They will know what that means. Quick side note - this might end up being the longest parenthetical reference in the history of mankind - I remember the exact moment that my parents and I had "The Talk". It was winter and I was 13 or 14. It had snowed the night before and my father woke me up to help him shovel the driveway. I went out w/out gloves, so unbeknownst to me my mother went up to my room to locate them for me. If you have ever seen the room of a 14 year old boy, you know that this would be no easy task. About 15 minutes into it, my mother called my father into the house. About 2 minutes after that, my father returned and with a look in his eyes that I could not at the time decipher, told me to go inside to my room because my mother needed to talk to me. I went in and my mother was sitting on my bed - how she found my bed is still a mystery. I used to find a soft pile and curl up feral style - and next to her were two magazines I had bought off of a friend of mine who stole them from his older brother. Just in case you don't already see where this is going, they weren't Sports Illustrated. It seems that my mother thought that my gloves would be under my bed, an area that had not seen the light of day since the Carter Administration. Instead of finding my gloves, she found my nascent porn collection. She asked me to sit next to her - probably the most uncomfortable thing that I had ever done up to that point in my life. Now that I have a mortgage and all those other various and sundry bills I do more uncomfortable things than that almost every day just to make enough money to pay the damn things - and she told me that a man and a woman making love is a very beautiful thing and...well, at that point I pretty much shut down and stared at her, nodding whenever I realized she had stopped speaking. But I DID learn a very valuable lesson that day. Never hide your porn under your bed. Later on I learned that you shouldn't hide it under the sofa in the living room, but that particular hiding place was more necessity when I heard the car pulling into the driveway than any kind of thought out plan. Later still I learned that in between the mattress and box spring is a very good place, provided you either put it far enough back that it isn't accidentally discovered when someone comes into your room to take the sheets off of the bed that they had been clamoring for for over a week and then they decide to put fresh sheets on the bed, even though you are 16 and should be doing this your damn self by now, or you remember to move it to a more secure location when your parents are having carpeting put into the house and the installers have to move your bed to do it. Whoops! Anyway, I planned on having the sex with my wife tonight. There, happy now?)

Wow, that WAS a long one (I know, that's what SHE said. I'll be here all week. Thank you. Try the veal). That may have been longer than an entire chapter of any randomly selected Dan Brown novel. Judges? Apparently I do get the "longer than a Dan Brown chapter", but I failed on the longest parenthetical. It seems that Faulkner was a real bitch about those things. Oh well.

So (trying in vain to find a segue back to the original topic and failing miserably, I go with "So"), Wifey is asleep on the couch with the new dog (which I will have to tell you about another time), and I am sitting at the computer reading my email. Wifey is not feeling well, so she has a blanket on and a space heater aimed right at her (sometimes I think her blood just doesn't go all the way to the skin). As I sit here composing an email to an old friend, what do I hear but Wifey calling out. It has that sleepy tone that can sound almost frantic. And what does she call out, you ask? She calls out "Daniel". 3 times.

I am at a loss as to what to think of this. It could be completely innocent. I could be competing with a Baldwin brother. Since she is still asleep, I really have no idea at this point. And it could have been much worse. She could have been doing it while we were completing our original plan for the evening. That might have caused a system malfunction on my end. But until I can better ascertain what this might mean and find out who the hell this "Daniel" is so I know exactly who's ass I am going to have to kick, I am going to have to rely on you, my dear readers, to tell me if you know any Daniels she might have in her history. Ronnettes, if there is some hunky guy working at the office that you all watch like you are in a Diet Coke commercial please let me know, because if she is thinking about some UPS guy while I am taking care of business, I am going to have to start thinking of someone else too (any volunteers? Volunteers w/a vajeen and no bait and tackle please).

Do you think there could be a vable presidential candidate with the words "Justifiable Homicide" on their resume?

BSR