I married the wrong woman

That's a bold opening.

I know I've got to tread lightly here. Deb is not only the mother of my children, she's also a regular reader of this blog (I believe that makes 7.)

So let me start out by saying how wonderful she is. Beautiful, easygoing, and as I'm often told, saint-like (considering how I can be a colossal asswipe.) ( I just Googled that phrase and no one in the history of mankind has ever referred to themselves using that particular set of words.)

On top of all that she has a great sense of humor.

But my wife drinks tea.

I drink coffee.

Moreover, she despises coffee.

Almost as much as I despise tea. This, despite my Scottish heritage.

Other men have fantasies about French maids. Or a menage-a-trois. Or even something involving a catcher's mask. I don't.

I dream of what life would have been like had I married a woman who loves coffee as much as I do. And waking up every morning to a fresh-brewed pot of Breakfast Blend.

When is Father's Day?