The night is typical for October in Thorold, Ontario: that is to say, schizoid. One minute it’s lukewarm Split Pea Soup, the next it’s dog-piss hot, then it’s subzero for no conceivable reason and the weathermen are apoplectic. I expect some day, my local meteorologist will throw an on-camera Gandalf-vs.-the Balrog fit complete with howling rage and threats of sorcerous retribution, bent golf club his ersatz staff.

On this particular evening, I’ve got the bedroom window cranked open to the sound of a cool thunderstorm, and a pumpkin spice jar candle is on the sill, flickering low and cheaply noisy. It’s been there about an hour, and the dark room is filled with the comforting scent of baked bliss …. until something intrudes: gasoline.

I wind up and suckerpunch the half-Viking half-Sasquatch who shares my bed, just to make sure he’s awake and aware.

Me: Smell that?

Hub: *growl* What, my ruptured spleen?

Me: Someone’s obviously siphoning our gasoline.

Hub: Obviously.

Me: There’s no other conceivable explanation.

Hub: Put down the crowbar, woman. Or at least put something on.

Me: What for?

Hub: After the hacksaw incident of Oct 2010, you really have to ask?

I sigh and put on some latex gloves (I keep em in the nightstand like all good wives do–trust me on this one), grab the crowbar and run upstairs to confront the punkass clownsmoker who must surely be out in the driveway sucking on a tube of liquid gold.  For good measure, as I run I make valiant attack noises that my limited fighting skills have no intention of following through on. My trip across the porch is commited only after a slapstick trip face-first into the door and mad windmilling at the step. It’s not easy to windmill with a crowbar in one hand. I manage, because apparently recreational paranoia grants one immunity to pain. 

There’s no one in the driveway. I stalk around the back of the car and find nothing. The hubster stands bathed in the light from the hallway, scratching the back of his neck.

Hub: What the hell are you doing?

Me: Preparing for battle. I might have been wrong about the siphoner. It might be zombies.

Hub: Any chance of you winning?

Me: Not without some bitchin’ kung fu sound effects and maybe a Footloose dance number.

Hub: Seriously, what are you doing out here?

Me: Petulantly nursing a serious case of disappointment.

Hub: Why do you always assume the worst?

Me: The worst can’t ambush me if I’m expecting it. I’m wily like that.

Hub: I think you want it to be the worst.

I choke-squawk like a drop-kicked rooster, but I have the grace not to argue the point.

Hub: Remember when I brought you flowers last week and you were disappointed?

Me: That was completely different: you denied me the opportunity to complain that you never buy me flowers.

Hub: Makes perfect sense.

Me: I had that marked on the calendar. Tuesday evening: remind the Yeti that he’s a cheap, lazyass mofo.

Hub: And that time we heard scratching at the window and you assumed it was a chupacabra, and took ten thousand pictures of what turned out to be the neigbhour’s cat?

Me: That’s different too! I’ve never met a real, live monster.

Hub (smiling): Keep pushing me, you might.

Me: Holy crapbaskets. You just accidentally hit my Oooh Baby switch to the on position.

Hub: Maybe I did it on purpose. Maybe when it comes to the woman I love, I’ve got moves.

I start to swoon, think better of it, and make a mental note to text “omgswoonz” to his cell later.

Hub: And your sales.

Me: Wait–what?

Hub: You set low expectations for yourself and then you’re baffled when you do well. Everyone told you that you’d do well.

I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other, suddenly very interested in the state of my lawn.

Hub: Come inside. I’ll make you a martini.

Me: Hell no. Your martini is a war crime. I’d rather swallow a hobo.

Hub: Fine, less booze, more snuggles. Coming back to bed?

It isn’t so much what he says. Hub’s not known for his clever wordsmithery. It’s the spine-tickling look he gives me.

Me: And ruin this heart-chafingly poignant moment with sex? Fuck, yeah.

Hub: Must you bring the crowbar?

Me: Honey … if a crowbar isn’t the answer, I really don’t understand the question.

(Editor’s note: AJ Aalto never ever attacks innocent strangers with a crowbar … she usually just jabs them a picklefork. Also: she’s a lot nicer to her husband in person than she is on the blog … or so he’s contractually obligated to attest.)