D**keleptic

I called Bridget the other morning from work.

"Yes?" she said tersely.
"I just wanted to call and, you know, apologize for the way I acted when I got home yesterday."

"You mean when you were acting like a d**k?"

I was picking up on subtle verbal cues that signaled that my wife might still be feeling some animosity. I'm intuitive that way.

The evening before I had pulled into the driveway after work and had been greeted by my smiling wife, kids and dogs. A smart guy would have jumped out of his car, grabbed a beverage and enjoyed the Florida evening with his family. I chose a different route when I noticed that my wife had once again parked her car in the middle of our two car driveway, which prevented me from parking my car. I stormed in the house without talking to anyone and made a sandwich.

Still, I didn't think my behavior merited the "D" word.

"I think the word "d**k" is a little strong."

"Really?" She sounded genuinely surprised.

"In all fairness," I replied, "I hadn't eaten all day and I was tired from ten hours of work in the hot Florida sun."

"And that excuses your temper tantrum?"

Now I was a little irritated.

"That was not a temper tantrum. That was a physiological response to adverse environmental conditions."

She didn't say anything so I continued.

"This was more like a seizure. Like, you know, epilepsy - but different."

"In other words, you have dickilepsy."

There was that word again. I formulated a measured, even retort that not only explained my position but let my wife know just how offended her repeated use of that word made me. And then I discarded it.

"Exactly. I have dickilepsy."

"Is there some kind of telethon for that?"

"Nope. Not that I'm aware of. But there should be."