My wife and I are still shooting for a child. Problem is, I seem to be shooting blanks. I called Dr. Klope to schedule a sperm count, which always struck me as tedious work. Can you see the poor guy slouched over the microscope?

"1,634 ... 1,635 ... no, wait, I already counted that one..."

Dr. Klope had one opening, eight a.m., which is entirely too early for sperm. A man can wake up with driftwood on his beach, but that doesn't mean he's ready to build a fire. It's usually noon before I can manage a French kiss.

I arrived at Klope's office, where I was received by a male nurse, thank God. He gave me a sterile cup (keyword: sterile), led me to the bathroom, and, without so much as leaving a Victoria Secret catalog, was on his way.

In the early days, when I first started experimenting with sperm collection, it didn't take much. The cover of National Geographic would do just fine. But these days I need visual aid, audio, a back story.

I poked around the room but found only medical pamphlets. Even in my freakiest moments, anatomy charts won't cut it. I was left to my imagination, where I luckily uncovered a memory from New Year's Eve, 2002. I won't go into details, but chances are that I will have to address them in the afterlife.

Still waiting on the results from my test. I'm sure they're almost ready: "6,234 ... 6,235 ..."

My wife flew back east to see her family. When she left, I asked whether it was smart for her to wear sandals into a cold front.

"I'll be fine," she said, rolling her eyes and making a pff sound.

Today Yahaira called from Philadelphia, shivering. She said I was right -- sandals were a bad idea and could she could buy some boots. Yahaira knew enough to start with the three magic words: "You were right."

I consented, but only because she was stuttering with hypothermia.

Later Yahaira called to say that she had found new boots and, by sheer destiny, a jacket to match! I was pleased to hear -- I am told -- that my wife would be warm and at the height of fashion.

Guys, you must be vigilant. No matter how she bats her eyes, your woman is two, sometimes three, steps ahead. If she offers you a beer or a backrub, you must ask, "What is really going on here?" And when she leaves for cold weather wearing sandals, insist that she march her butt back in to the house and change.

Then tell me how it goes.

Why is it important for razors to go fast? Gilette's Mach 3 wasn't fast enough, so they moved on to the Mach 3 Turbo. Schick offers the Extreme razor, which, according to the commercial, can fly through space.

After the bloodbath of learning how to shave in the first place, you'd think we would want a razor to go as slow as possible. Maybe "The Tortoise" by Nerf. But not us guys. If it ain't fast, it had better sure as hell sound manly.

Gillette M3 Power? I'll take it.

Remington Titanium? Yes, yes, yes. Grrrrrrrrr.

I myself use a Braun, which is practically like giving your face extra muscles. But I've got my eyes peeled for faster, manlier replacements. The way razor technology is going, you have to keep up.

When I was growing up, my dad paid close attention to the fridge. He liked to know how long the door was open. In milliseconds. My dad thought he could buy a Ferrari if it weren't for our reckless misuse of refrigeration...

"Maybe," he'd say, "you want to take a picture and come back when you're ready?"

And I, already ill with Smart Aleck's Disease, would say, "But I'm looking for a food that gives off the right energy."

And he'd smack me in the head.

It happened so often that I developed a complex. Whenever I reached for the fridge, I had to ask, "Am I hungry enough to risk head injury?"

Today, all these refrigerators later, I still get nervous when I stand at the fridge. I feel the pressure to make a decision before the Jeopardy music ends and I get whacked in the head.

My wife, on the other hand, opens the fridge "just because." In the summer she waves it like a paddle fan to freshen her forehead. It's enough to give you a nervous breakdown.

One time I walked in to find that she had left the door open and ABANDONED THE SCENE ALTOGETHER. And though nothing has happened yet, I'm keeping my distance in case my dad's fist somehow falls out of the sky.