Ang is the Rally Monkey. Or Something.

One minute it's 2-0 Royals in the bottom of the 4th, Ang sits me down to tell me about her day, and before I know it the score is 6-2 Red Sox and I'm doing a really bad version of a jig in the kitchen while she gives me a look that is part pity and part pure horror.

Who knew that listening to her talk about her deranged students and their headinthesand parents would result in such positive news?

Seriously, if I'd have known THIS could happen I'd have paid attention to her a long time ago.

I'm a man of few talents; I can't sing, can't dance, and you wouldn't wish it upon your worst enemy to see me attempt both at once. I have a 2nd graders grasp of grammar, am completely lost in trying to help Ciera with her math homework, and couldn't point out the Red Sea on a map if you gave me a GPS and cliff notes.

But I can watch tv and listen to Ang tell me about her day better than Carl Lewis can run the 100 yard dash. In fact, if they made multi-tasking an Olympic Sport I'd have more Gold Medals than Michael Phelps and can pretty much guarantee you wouldn't see pictures of me smoking doobies in some college dorm a few months later.

If and when the Red Sox clinch a playoff birth I'll sit her down and explain why she's gonna have to tell me, in great detail, about every single detail of her day, right down to what she ate for lunch and at what time.

We've been married for almost 17 years.

I'm sure she'll understand.

And even if she doesn't, she'll give me that slightly bemused look where she wonders if I've finally lost it then grins that beautiful smile to let me know that she understands I'm insane yet it's all OK.

Is it any wonder why I love this woman with all my heart?

October baseball is just around the corner.

And Dane Cook can bite becks tweeter.

I live for this.