I’ve been thing about the expression, you are what you eat. If that’s really true than I am sweet potatoes.

Some say I’m a jackass, but really I’m sweet (potato.)

If I am indeed – as I have long suspected – not human, but actually tangerine-colored tuber, then boy, things are gonna have to change around here.

Angelface, in an effort to save a couple bucks on electricity, has been turning off the air at night. This would be okay if we lived in – say – the frozen wastelands of Alaska where folks need a/c like J-lo needs more ass, but you know what? Angel and I, we live in F*-ing Hot Florida.

When you live in F*-ing Hot Florida, having the a/c on 24/7 is non-negotiable. It’s not a novelty; it’s a necessity, no different than other life-sustaining substances, RE: water, oxygen, American Idol, and organic raisins.

So yeah Angel, if your Sweetie is a potato, then you need to stop this turning-off-the-a/c-at-night shit immediately. If you don’t, things could end up real bad between us.

I can see the headline now:

“Man With Potato for Wife Refuses To Turn on A/C At Night, Wakes Up Next to Pile of Veggie Crisps In Morning.”

… Yes, it has been extremely hot in my apartment lately.
________________________________________________________

Last chance! Enter the Randy Jackson What’s Up Dawg Contest before it’s too effing late….Too effing late is Sunday, btw.

“Baby, when are you gonna blog about how I always beat your ass at Scrabble?”
- Angelface, Circa Sunday night

Although I’m ashamed to admit this for both personal and professional reasons, I’m going to be candid here: I am a loser.

A writer by profession, I realize there are certain things people come to expect of me. I’m supposed to read books (I do), and I’m supposed to be good at spelling (I am), and above all else – because words are my passion, my raison d’etre – I’m supposed to kick all kinds of ass in Scrabble.

I’m having a little trouble with the latter.

You see, not once, but twice now Angelface has proved himself a worthy adversary in wordplay and has beat me – like my name was Rodney effing King – at the most Hänni-friendly board game ever created.

This hurts, mostly because Angelface – throughout the duration of his entire life – has only played Scrabble twice.

In case you are bad at math, this means, that at Scrabble, Angel roolz and Hänni droolz… but I digress.

The first time Angel beat me, it was really bad –like beating me by 100pts or a triple-word-score for “quilts” bad. The second game though, I really thought I had a chance. If only The Face would’ve given me “Zocrates.” But Angel said Zocrates wasn’t a word. “Yes it is,” I retorted, “Zocrates was an Athenian teacher and the founder of the Zocratic Method!”

Unfortunately this argument was not persuasive –Angel is very well informed about Socrates and the Socratic Method, because he took philosophy in college….Plus he’s seen Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure like 50 times.

So yeah, Angel also wouldn’t accept:

• “Le” because it’s French and the French are bastards.
• “Telly” because it’s British and those people talk funny English.
• “Ownly,” because, even though I”m fairly certain it’s in the Redneck Dictionary, Angel couldn’t find it in Webster’s.

Interestingly enough, even though Angel seemed to have a problem with the foreign words mentioned above, he did let me have “yen.” “I can’t believe it,” I said. “You’re going to allow yen?” “Of course I am baby,” Angel replied, “it’s the Chinese dollar.”

I started to tell Angel he was wrong –the yen is actually Japanese, but I stopped myself. Unless I was able to pull a “boner” on triple-word-score I was going to lose, and I needed those six-effing-points.

At the end of our game, after 14 grueling rounds, Angelface calculated our totals.

At the bottom of his column he wrote 181.

At the bottom of mine, he recorded a score of “dumbass.”

There’s a ton of great movies out right now – (Yeah Brokeback Mountain. Cowboys in love = yum.) – and Angelface asked me about one I’d gone to see with Niccy B.

Angelface: (looking perplexed) “Who the eff is Guy-ee-SHA?”

Hänni: “What?”

Angelface: “Guy-ee-SHA? Who is Guy-ee-SHA and why does he/she/it get their own movie?”

Hänni: “I think you mean ‘gay-shuh’. Geisha are old skool Japanese courtesans.”

Angelface: (like a light bulb has just come on) “Oh sweet. The movie is all about porno and stuff!”

Well no.

I wanted to tell Angel that actually geisha are *not* cheap, whores of the porno variety. They are skilled artisans, trained to excel in traditional Japanese singing, dancing, flower arrangement, tea ceremony, etc. I wanted to tell my dear husband how these women, once venerated for their skills and beauty, are now dwindling, so that the “geisha” you see on the street in modern Japan are typically just actresses posing for tourists.

I wanted to tell Angel these things, but instead I opted for “Ehhh, something like that.”

Angelface just looked so damn cheerful about the assumed smuttiness. I couldn’t ruin that for him.

I mean seriously, he was all gleeful like a kid who’d just won the spelling bee. His word: “happiness”. His spelling: p-o-r-n.

… But I digress.
________________________________________________________

Don’t forget, dear hannihaus readers, I’m currently taking guesses for the Randy Jackson What’s Up Dawg Contest. Everyone who enters is a winner – at least in life.

Oh yeah, and as an added incentive, I’ve decided to throw in some boobies (!) of the prize persuasion. Yep, enter my contest and you might just get yourself a booby.

Welcome, dear hannihaus readers, to week two of 2006. It’s no longer the “new year” per se, and predictably, some of my goals have already fallen by the wayside. My teeth, for example, have not been flossed once in 2006. My arms, resembling the flaccid, flabby wings of a chicken would benefit from the pilates I’ve not done. And call me a man if you must, but I have not remembered to shut the dad-gum toilet lid once in 10 days.

On the flip side, my cats’ resolution to play Panty Raider with my unmentionables is going quite well. It’s really been great finding my padded bras and that embarrasing bridal shower thong with the veil on the booty strewn about the living room in a glorious and garish display… especially when friends and maintenance men are over…but I digress.

In any event, if there’s one resolution I intend to keep, dear hannihaus readers, it’s my resolution to rock.

And you know what really rocks?

My über -manly, grunting/farting/belching Better Half proclaiming his love for “hot nuts”, whilst out with friends on a weekend night.

Even better, when his declaration falls on ears otherwise occupied with the sounds of a martini bar in full yuppie swing, he raises his voice to loudly exclaim:

“I really love those hot nuts you get on the streets!”

… Of course this utterance must occur at a moment when the din dies down causing a shocked WASP at the next table over to choke on her cheesy, chicken cordon bleu.

And then you get to giggle, because you know Angelface has an affinity for almonds. When your man talks about “hot nuts” he’s referring to street vendors and sugared pecans *not* street walkers and dangling fun bags.

But they don’t know that.

Hee hee!

For some it’s chicken soup, but for me, it’s a big, old bowl of ice cream (or two).

When the dog bites
When the bee stings
When I’m feeling sad

I reach for the Edy’s Double Fudge Brownie and then I don’t feel so bad.

Things have been really bad at our (sick) house this past week. What with all the hacking and coughing, phlegm, and fevers, it’s been absolutely essential that Angelface and I put down 1.5 gallons of Pillsbury, Breyers and (of course) Edy’s ice cream.

It was whilst delving into my third daily serving of Turtle Fudge Brownie that I thought to tell Angel, “You’d better enjoy this body now. I’m going to keep eating ice cream like this, and in only two years I’ll be 100lbs heavier.”

Angelface replied, “Do that and your left ring finger will be 2 ounces lighter.”

“What the hell does that mean?” I thought.

My first reaction was to shudder in horror, as I remembered a post at the Indolent Factotum (Kiss Him, He’s Alaskan) called “My finger for your love” The post linked to a story about fetishists who chewed each other’s digits off as a show of affection.

“My God,” I thought, “Angel wants to eat Ring Man!”

… And then, I grew a brain.

“Oh wait,” I told Angel, “Are you trying to be clever? Are you telling me you’d leave me if I gained weight?” (Assuming a wedding band = 2 oz.)

Thoughtfully, Angelface answered, “Do you think K-Fed would stay with Britney if she was fat?”

Erm.

I didn’t even know what to say except “Are you calling yourself K-Fed now?”

After a few moments of silence, Angelface with ice cream bowl perched on belly and Xbox controller in hand replied, “Baby, don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

Apparently my husband’s been hitting the ‘Smack again.

“Hello,” I say.

“Hey,” he says in his sweet, southern accent, “hows it goin’?”

“Fine,” I say, “I’m just working on writing something. It’s an entry for a competition –I want to win a Jesus dress up magnet set. It comes with heels and hot pants.”

“Cool, cool,” he says, completely nonplussed by my irreverent activities. “Hey, what are we having for dinner?”

“Oh I don’t know… chicken? Spaghetti? Truth be told, I’m not very hungry. I just had some of your ice cream.”

“Oh yeah? How much?”

“Not very much.”

“How much?”

“Just a little bit really, like two bowls –but small bowls. Like lemon-water, finger bowl-sized bowls.”

“Hänni! Two bowls?! Is there any left for me, fat ass?”

“Yeah of course, there’s plenty. And hey, I did you a favor. Aren’t you on a diet or something?” …

I say this last sentence quickly, too quickly. Fearing the divine retribution of a man and his stomach scorned, I try to lessen the blow, but all that comes out of my backpedaling pie hole is a rather unspectacular, “erm…”

“Don’t worry about me,” Angel quips back, “I’ll lose weight alright. I’m gonna get a real good work out when I come home and whip your ass for eating my ice cream!”

“Ha ha!” I laugh.

Tub of Edy’s Double Fudge Brownie ice cream: $3.00
Number of bowls strategically stuffed at 5pm, (one hour before Angel gets home), to ensure ample time for unmitigated access to ice cream that isn’t yours: 2
Knowing he’d do the same to you: Priceless

“No farting in the Jeep” Angel says as he wrinkles his nose in disgust and rolls down the windows.

“I’m sorry but we’ve just eaten at Diarrhea Golden Corral and I can’t help it,” I say, (knowing full well I can, but find my anal acoustics more amusing.)

He says, (with deeply furrowed brow), “Seriously, don’t do it. No farting on the leather seats.”

I say, (slightly taken aback, and intrigued by the idea of despoiling factory leather via ass blast), “Erm, k…”

He says, (self righteously), “I don’t ever fart in the Jeep.”

I say, (incredulously), “Yeah right!”

He says, (with all the conviction of an ardent televangelist) “No really. I only crack one off in emergency situations and you should do likewise.”

At that moment I:

A) Wished I had one more colonic calliope to bequeath my darling husband – one more telegraph from Ft. A-hole to Cmdr. Nostril, if you will.

B) Realized I am married to someone who is, in his own special way, just as insane as I am.

And now, dear hannihaus readers, in the spirit of fun and flatulence, answer me this: A sphincter says what?

Angelface is a man’s man. Case in point: his favorite beer is Bud Light, and his favorite pastimes include flying, golfing, washing the cars, and playing Xbox.

He is the yang to my yin, the salt to my sugar, the franz to my hans.

In short, he is all man.

That being said, I find it hilarious that Angel has recently veered away from his barbershop haircuts and is now getting his hair did at a place called “Bit of Charm”.

Admittedly, there is a reasonable explanation for Angel’s segue from the world of buzz cuts and straight razors to the world of styling, spraying, hair coloring and highlights. You see, Kristin, who cut his hair at Sports Clips, has left the Men Den to pursue business at her own place, said Bit of Charm salon.

Angelface really likes Kristin, and made it a point to bring me her business card. “Baby she does all sorts of things, like hair coloring and styling, all for a reasonable price!” Angel told me with great enthusiasm.

And I’m proud of him for having the cojones to get his hair cut at a salon. I really am. I think it’s never a good sign when part of your hair cut involves five minutes with a flowbee, which is standard practice at a barber shop.

I just think it’s really funny that this enthusiasm, this extreme excitement about a place called Bit of Charm is coming from a man who won’t wear a scarf in 10 degree weather because it’s “too girly.”

But I digress.

So help me out dear hannihaus readers. I’m curious, ladies, where does your man draw the line? What’s too girly? And dudes, we want to hear from you too.