where the writers are
Do You Know Me?

After living with my wife for three and a half decades and know her for four, I'm pleased to report I remain a man of mystery to her.

She is also a woman of mystery to me.

We know this because the words coming out from our mouths causes perplexed reactions in each other.

This paradigm was reinforced a few days ago in conversation.  "The Book of Mormon will be playing in Portland on my birthday," said she.  "Wouldn't it be fun to go and see it?"

"Yes," I agreed. 

"The Book of Mormon is writen by the guys who write Southpark." 

I gave her one of my patented looks of perplexed scrutiny.  "Yes, I know." 

"It can be pretty raunchy."

I paused a few beats to digest her comments' implications.  I'm the Southpark watcher in our family.  Scatological humor interests my wife not except in Jonathan Swift essays.  Although she enjoys Monty Python's puerile skills, she doesn't put it on the same level as me -- I'll still watch and enjoy their skits and movies although I've seen them dozens of times.  She'll tolerate some of the Southpark episodes if they're on but she has been known to walk out.  She's not interested in Terence and Philip and their fart jokes, or the quiffing humor, and doesn't see the humor in gay Satan and his lover, Saddam Hussein.  Hanky the Christmas Poo's first appearance sent her out of the room.  Towelly didn't impress her.

And she thinks I need to be warned that The Book of Mormon might be raunchy?

Does she know me? I wondered.

I nodded.  "Yes, honey, I know."