where the writers are
I have a complaint

    Months are not as long as they used to be.  You just can't get your money's worth out of a month any more.  I'd like to know who's in charge of this.

     Once a week, my wife makes me change the water filter on our well pump.  To say she is.....ahem.....obsessive....about recurring home maintenance chores is a bit of an understatement.  She makes Adrian Monk seem like Walter Matthau in comparison.   She says it's only once a month, but I know better.  Either someone's cooking the books, or twenty-one days of every month is just MISSING.

     This morning, my wife handed me a clean water filter.  (She buys these by the van load.   I'm not sure where one gets water filters in bulk, bhe she must have found a good deal somewhere.  "It's time to change the water filter," she intones.

      "I just did it last week," I informed her.

      She pulls out the home maintenance ledger book and points to a check mark on June 30.  "YOU checked off the job yourself," she reminds me.  "It was a month ago."

       I eyeball the check mark suspiciously.  "If I've EVER seen a forged check mark, that's it!" I say accusingly.   "You moved it up from July 17!"

       "The checkmark was made with a peacock green calligraphy pen!" she says.  "I don't even HAVE a calligraphy pen, and I'm left handed, besides.  That is YOUR check mark.   Change the filter."

        "But it's DARK down there!.  It takes me ninety minutes just to find the light switch....which is in an entirely different place every week!"

        "You only go down there once a MONTH!  And I assure you NOBODY is moving the light switch around.   And if anyone is doing it, YOU are.   YOU wired up the basement in the first place."

        Well, there's female logic for ya.

        "YOU are the one who's always saying you never see me enough!" I refrain.  "The reason you never SEE me is that I'm always in the basement changing the FILTER!   One day, I'll be missing, and when NCIS comes to investigate, all they'll find is a SKELETON with a FILTER WRENCH clutched in his rotting metacarpals.   THEN you'll be sorry!"

        "Oh for Pete's sake.   Last time you changed the filter, it took exactly FOUR MINUTES.  I timed you with my oven timer."

        "Yeah,   Like THAT's a real credible source," I say.  "When was the last time you sent your OVEN TIMER in for calibration?  HUH????"

        "Change the filter.  When you come back I'll have your banana pancakes.  Do you want banana pancakes or should I feed them to the cats?" she sighs.

        "Banana pancakes??!!   Of course I want banana pancakes!   You haven't made them in AGES!"

        "I made banana pancakes last WEEK!" she informs me.

        "No you didn't.  It was at LEAST a month ago.  Women have NO sense of time!"

        She proceeds to pull her cooking ledger out of the cupboard.   She points out the entry.  Saturday, July 17.  Banana pancakes.  "There.  Right there in black and white.   Shall I have it notarized?"

        I know when to quit.   But just in case I don't show up in Red Room for a few weeks, you might check my basement.