Is it just me, or do more and more foods come with stories these days?

I bought some organic ice cream -- "organic" meaning that it costs twice as much -- from a company called Sea Turtle. On the carton was a story about giant turtles roaming the land before dinosaurs. Before God, I believe. The amazing part is that the climax involves vanilla fudge ice cream.

I'm starting to grow disappointed when products don't have a history. It's no longer enough for food to taste good; it should also have survived The Great Donut Drought of Ancient Egypt or been implicated in the capture of Al Capone.

The stories may also come in handy at bedtime, when my future children ask for ice cream.

"No, kiddos," I will say, "but I promise to read you the label as you fall asleep."

My wife, who was doing laundry, asked me to fetch her the bleach. At the top of her lungs.

I, being a busy and important dignitary, typed quickly to finish my important dignitary email before Yahaira shouted, "Don't make me come in there after you!"

I tucked the Clorox under my arm like a football and sprinted toward The Voice. Spiking the bleach into the whites, I returned to my chair before the cushion could get cold.

It wasn't until lunchtime that something caught my eye ... a stripe of orange on this, my favorite black shirt. Right under the armpit, where one might carry a football.

I took one of those deep Buddha breaths and then, on the exhale, screamed, "BLEEPEDY BLEEP BLEEPIN' BLEEP ... BLEEP!" Yahaira rushed to my side and, when she stopped laughing, suggested that I dye the shirt back to black.

I am doing that now. While wearing my favorite white shirt. It's not easy being a moron.

If you've been married for any length of time, you understand how natural it is to desire, every once in a while, to murder your spouse. My wife and I have had discussions that you could hear from Mir.

That is why I keep by the computer photographs of my wife and me at age 7. They remind me that underneath the adult words and occasional projectile, we're all just little children longing to be hugged.

My wife and I have also developed a system for settling arguments: We just talk and talk until she's right.