I’m not the kind of female that wears an apron in the kitchen and has dinner ready for her man when he comes home from work. What I mean by that is, if the guy and I hit a rough patch, or he’s having a tough time at work, or the two of us just aren’t clicking lately, I’m much more likely to take him out, get him drunk, and do my sexy dance to cheer him up rather than meet him at the door with a smile and a homemade meatloaf.

So why, I wonder, am I doing things like whipping up a batch up potato pancakes on a Monday night to go with the brats and sauerkraut he’d requested, along with some ears of yummy corn, rather than taking him to the car wash and doing things unfit for publication?

And why, I ask, did I make an enormous vat of corn chowder on my one day off, when I should be in bed nursing a wine headache or on the trails putting some more miles on my bike, rather than simply flashing my boy a nipple while we walked the dogs that evening?

And who baked those banana cupcakes, anyway?

(Oh, don’t worry. I know that it takes a special sort of person to love me!)