I asked Alisa if she would still love me if I had a cup for a hand. These are, after all, the important things to know.

Some women see a cup for a hand and they’re immediately put off but my wife tells me she would love me and still allow me to kiss her.

“How about if I put my cup hand up near your neck and pull you close with it,” I ask while the cup on my hand glides up from her collarbone to her neck. I kiss her, cup at her neck.

“Yeah, I might ask that you use your non-cup hand if you’re going to do that,” she replies.

It’s good to know how things stand in the event of my sudden cuphandedness.

So Alisa’s past the made-up by modern science due date she was given and it’s driving us crazy.

I get up everyday and think, “This could be the day. Right now? No baby. This evening? Baby. Baby off… Baby on… Baby off… Baby on.”

I’m sure the waiting has something to do with the twitch I’ve recently developed in my left eye. It’s either that or I’ve been drinking Mad Dog 20/20 and I know it’s been 12 years or more since that happened.

And so every awkward pain Alisa has makes me jump. I’m sure she’s tired of me asking if she’s OK every time she has indigestion.

She looks fantastic too and not in a “that’s what you say on the Innanet to make your very pregnant wife still feel attractive” way. I mean, she looks great and not the slightest bit train-wreckish. Looked great before, looks great now but with bump in front.

I’ve been telling Alisa for the past few months that she’s a pro at this. Other than a few aches and pains, and ignoring the bump in front for the point I’m making, you wouldn’t even know she was pregnant. I’ve been telling her, “You should be pregnant more often. You wear it well.” Then she tells me, “You must be high.” I suppose her ease of pregnancy is more an outward perception than her inner feeling.

Any moment now, baby. Whenever you’re ready.

Happy Anniversary Ultra Hotness!

So Alisa and I are watching The Sound of Music last night and wrapping gifts. It’s the tender scene in the garden where Maria and the Captain are finally professing their love for one another:

Me: They should have us as a special commentary track on the DVD for this.
Her: He looks like he’s romancing a Roman in a toga.

So I’m on the plane with Alisa and I’m just gazing out the window - gazing at the clouds and the land and the wide ocean and she’s got the window seat, sitting there with a book! A book! A window seat and outside, a jet engine on each side of the plane produces enough thrust to overcome tons of metal and foam seat cushions that double as floatation devices from falling into the ocean. I’m amazed that airplanes carrying hundreds of people at a time are able to take off, fly for hours, and land somewhere far away. And get this: then, they turn around and do it again the other way! And sometimes they don’t even stop the engines! How could you read a book while the human race defies what was meant to be? We’re not supposed to fly. We’re not supposed to be up there. Look at all that ocean down there. How can you not search for cruise ships? Alisa reminds me that the odds of seeing one and being in the right place in the sky to fly over one are very low. Sorry man, if I’m flying over the ocean, I’m looking for cruise ships. That’s the way it is.

Maybe that’s why I liked the SCUBA so much while on the recent vacation. We’re not supposed to breathe down there! And yet, here we are with the fish and the crabs and the things in the sand. I saw a sting ray where he lives. I’m supposed to be at an aquarium and they’re supposed to be gliding around the shallow tank for me to touch and instead, I’m 30-something feet under water and this thing is giving me the wing tilt “What’s up” as it gently glides off. That is cool.

Well that was what a vacation should be.

Leaving 30-something morning temperatures last Saturday and arriving in the afternoon in beautiful mid-80s St. Croix with a waiting cold Presidente and frozen grapes, courtesy of a resident friend who picked Alisa and I up. Our villa had an expansive view of the Salt River Bay area where Columbus’ crew set foot and fought with the natives during their second trip to the West Indies. I’m a pamphlet reader. There were pamphlets. I read them. I could tell you a thing or two about sugar mills too.

Anyway, highlights of our trip in a handy bulleted list format include:

• SCUBA diving for my first time ever and loving it.
• Great dining and bonus Alisa-so-full dessert add-ons.
• Going to sleep and waking to dreamy views. And the scenery outside wasn’t so bad either.
• Floating about in the villa pool while the sun went down and the first stars of the evening appeared.
• Floating about in the clear white sanded bottom water of Sandy Point National Refuge in view of sea turtle nesting tracks we walked by to get there.
• Inappropriately hot hot sauce on island home cooking…
• …and a cold Caribe in hand to wash it down.

What is it about being on an island that makes an otherwise unacceptable beer totally desirable? Oh yes, I forgot, it’s heat-induced thirst and lack of variety.

Why do people abbreviate “vacation” as “vaca” anyway? Do we save that much by not having to say “tion?” We might as well shorten words like “scissors” and “cheese.”

Eh, I’m all over the place here. Snack time. I’ve got some chee with my name on it.

I’ve known since our third date that I was going to marry Alisa. The rest of the last 11-ish months has just emphasized what I knew already. She’s amazing and I’m amazingly happy.

Harvard girls are hot.

My girlfriend is a superstar as it is. Now she’s a super-duper star.

I tend to be efficient and waste-conscious with many of my actions. “Efficiency!” is what I thought to myself this morning, with my index finger pointed to the sky, when I left my turkey sandwich on the passenger seat of my car when I got to work. It’s winter and, of course, it will naturally keep refrigerated.

Turkey on mustarded bread, a slice of Havarti with dill, and alfalfa sprouts because I like me the crunch and it’s better for you than putting potato chips in the sandwich like I did when I was a kid.

Today, I didn’t count on the blazing sun being positioned just so as to properly cook my sandwich. That was not so efficient. I don’t think Havarti is normally a melty sort of cheese.

I’ll tell you this: Havarti is not bad as a melty cheese. Alfalfa sprouts, however, do lose pizazz with heat. This is where my waste-conscious side takes over and tells me, “You are not throwing this sandwich away. You are going to eat this sandwich and you’re going to like it.” My internal voice sometimes prefers the tough love. My internal voice also sounds exactly like my mom used to when she made my sister and I sit at the table until we ate our zucchini.

I appreciate good food. Alisa and I make some excellent meals. I, however, also appreciate a 4-day-old slice of pizza. I don’t seek out the 4-day-old pizza, carefully waiting day after day as I open the fridge and tell myself, “Is it time yet? Is it ready? No! Not old enough! Only 3 days old!” Rather, if pizza just happens to be 4-days-old, I don’t have a problem with it. Sometimes, it’s better that than not eating anything.

Alisa, I believe, has some sort of logarithmic scale of taste. Something like the Richter scale but in reverse. Fresh to leftover takes a 75% drop in appetizing-potential in her world.

Look, I fully realize that 4-day-old pizza is not going to taste even 5% as good as it did when it was fresh and I’m fine with it. That’s what ketchup or barbecue sauce are for. There’s an extra 5% of original taste boost right there. Dip it and you’re up to 10% of original and that ain’t half bad. That’s double digit percents on my taste-o-meter.

I saw the national touring production of Les Miserables this past weekend with Alisa, some of her relatives, and friends. That’s a good show.

Last week, before the thing, I got to thinking why you tend to see the same musicals performed in high schools. Grease, Bye Bye Birdie, etc. You don’t see a lot of the more modern stuff. Granted, a lot of the modern stuff is a bit more of a challenge than some of the vocals in shows from the ’50’s and ’60’s.

Of course, the answer is obviously licensing. Some shows are just never released in that way. It turns out, actually, that Les Miserables has a school edition. Can you imagine? This site has a list of some upcoming high school performances across the country.

So, other than the editing for length, I suppose the poor, downtrodden women are smiling milkmaids instead of prostitutes? It says Act II is rated PG so maybe they flirt with some issues. Don’t get any ideas, Fulton High.

Semi-Related: I know a lot of the stuff on IMDB isn’t legit but seriously, read the plot summary for this possible movie in development and tell me you don’t want to see it.