The man does laundry, too. Lucky!

He begged me Saturday: "Gallery Walk? You and me? Let's go."

Which was just like him asking me Friday night: "Let's go see (a band) play -- will you go?"

Which was like him trying to reason with me Friday afternoon: "We can go to the bar, just for a little bit. One drink."

But I wouldn't move from the couch. Work is tiring. Life is tiring. I just want to lay here, on the couch, my facial expression said. What I said was something like "Uggggh, no, Dave. Please, no. YOU go. Really."

I tell him reasonably that I'll be more than happy to read or watch a movie if he wants to go. Unlike the conniving girlfriend image you're conjuring up in your imaginations right now (the one that just happens to look just like your college roommate's ex-girlfriend), I mean it.

Really. I have this book. I have three movies. I will be fine. Look, my hands aren't even on my hips. I don't have that "test me" sound in my voice.

"Just go for a while, it'll be fun for you," I said, book in hand.

"No, I'll stay," he said. "If you don't want to go ..."

Some might jump and say "he's whipped." I like to think of it more as "he just likes to be home." Or, more likely, "he wants me to go so I will stand up from the couch and take my down blanket with me, thus providing him with enough motivation to follow." Or, the near-truth, "he doesn't want to go, but if he says it's because of me, then he looks like the perennial cool guy."

And I'm OK with any of those three responses right now.

Either way. We didn't leave the house but to shovel, have a snowball fight, and run to the store to grab some chocolate milk and toothpaste all weekend.

That's what I was thinking of when I decided to get married. Chocolate milk-and-toothpaste Saturdays. Though not at the same time.