I was married for almost 13 years. Not all to the same woman, but the point is that before rushing into marriage you should consider some kind of formal training. I recommend a degree in abnormal psychology.

My first marriage would have been lovely if I were a grownup. Alas, it was like Rodgers and Hammerstein writing a masterpiece, then casting for its hero a rabid monkey. So it goes.

I will share, then, from my recent marriage since Yahaira has already signed off on this column. (Yes, I'm still getting permission.)

As an ovum bearer, Yahaira was big on eye contact. Had she been a programmer, her software would work only when it has your undivided attention. And there'd be macros that go off any time you hit the wrong keys. Escape! ESCAPE!

If Yahaira had her way, humans would listen with their mouths so that you'd always have to prove that you're listening.

"No, honey, I'm not yawning; I'm tuning in."

The best moments of our marriage came, believe it or not, during PMS (psychotic monthly situation), when Yahaira would fume about someone and I would offer to kill them.

"You'd really do that for me?" she said, blushing.

And I nodded with that uneasy feeling you get before you join a cult.

The problem with mixed marriages -- those between men and women -- is that women have issues that a man cannot fix. We'd like to repair that leak in her tear ducts, for instance, but duct tape doesn't come that small. And WD40 only makes things worse.

Yahaira and I never went to bed angry, which is to say that we stayed up "debating" till we both looked like zombies from "Night of the Living Dead."

"Brains ... I cannot find your brains ..."

It's funny how we resist making up after a fight. Part of you is going, "Tell her you love her. Say your sorry. Who cares?" Another part wrestles you into a half-nelson and goes, "No, it burns! Sssss."

Yahaira always wanted to make up when I was in the middle of something like, say, Raiders-Packers: "I think we should spend more time together and develop our intimacy..."

And ladies, I wanted to listen -- I really did -- but all I could hear was, "Johnson cuts up the middle; he breaks a tackle; he COULD ... GO ... ALL ... THE ... WAAAY."

He was the only one going all the way.

Yahaira and I both worked at home, so in total together-time we were married for 600 years, two old mountains rubbing shoulders for eternity. "And another thing: I'm tired of you taking me for granite!"

No matter how much you love your mate, comes a time when, if you don't get out a little, your tolerance level drops to dangerous lows, as in, "Could you PLEASE stop digesting so loudly!"

Yahaira and I had trouble in little rooms like the bathroom. I'd use the triangle towels, which would, of course, turn into words about my driving, and before you knew it she was running me out with a blow dryer...

"This bathroom ain't big enough for the both of us."

I'm sure it's the same all over the animal kingdom. Dog wives ambling in with a glass of brandy and Tammy Fae eyeliner: "You don't sniff my butt anymore." Turtle wives banging on the shells of their husbands: "You come out this instance -- we are not done talking." Minnie Mouse being ushered away in handcuffs: "It was his voice. I just couldn't TAKE it anymore!"

If your own marriage is experiencing technical difficulty, you might consider finding a common enemy. Remember: Even warring dogs are one against the wolf. Have your pastimes, sure, but also look for something you can really despise together -- leaf blowers, junk mail, Paula Abdul. Then get together once a week to really hate the hell out of it. And once your blood really starts to boil, crawl into bed and don't say a word.

I was hiking far from civilization -- so far that you couldn't see McDonald's -- when I got a call from the lower intestine. It wasn't a call so much as an emergency breakthrough. I could have run for the car, but it was a crapshoot.

I'm not big on doing my business alfresco. I don't even like to be without reading material. I'll read the towel care instructions if I have to.

The path dropped away in both directions, sagebrush and oak. I chose the shady side in case the gods were watching.

I had never been a Boy Scout. If Dad wanted to show me the great outdoors, he had to strap a TV to his back. So when I found a tree whose branch formed a perfect little toilet, oval and everything, I didn't consider that it might be crawling with poison oak whose leaves I would use to wipe my rear end.

Friends wonder if I'm dumb enough to collect disability.

In bed that night I scratched myself to shreds. Seriously, if I had a cheese grater, I would have used it. At some point a rational man would have turned on the light to investigate; I assumed mosquito bites. So it goes.

Morning revealed a trail of blood all the way from Knee Bend to the Groin Canyon. If you listened closely, you could hear the pimples say, "You idiot ... You idiot ..."

Poison oak burns like battery acid and will not be appeased by "ointments" or "showers." I tiptoed through the house in my sour-lemon face, trying not to stir the air, trying not to relive that moment when I could have plunked my butt down anywhere on earth but decided instead to seek out the Ring o' Death.

Here are the parts that escaped my scratching: scalp, eyeballs, lower back, right big toe. You will notice that genitalia is not on that list. As if that area weren't a train wreck to begin with.

The situation called for urgent medical attention, so I did what anyone with HMO does: I looked up the answers online. One site described a boy whose poison oak had spread to his brain and, as legend has it, became incredibly hungry for knowledge. No, no, no. He died in surgery.

My friend-in-need Yahaira rushed over for a look. She wasn't a doctor, but she had stayed at a Holiday Inn Express. When she saw the gurgling sores, she gave me a giant pretend hug. I had become the boy in the bubble.

We broke out rubbing alcohol, the scent of pain itself. When I was a boy, Mom doused everything with alcohol: scratches, bruises, smart-ass remarks. It didn't matter how much we thrashed; she was a rubbing alcoholic.

Yahaira took the same tough-love approach: dab and move, dab and move. Yahaira, who like Howard Hughes can see microbes with the naked eye, double-bagged my Levi's and carried them plutonium-like to the trash. She left me with another pretend hug and promised to call ... as soon as she told the story to everyone she knew. She may as well have published it in the paper.

It has been three days now. My legs itch like the world's gonna end, and you kinda wish it would. Guys who are on fire actually slow down to empathize. Why do governments fiddle with chemical weapons when poison oak is ever ready? I personally would convert race, religion, and gender before braving poison oak.

I like to think that everything on this planet has a purpose -- even Paris Hilton -- but maybe poison oak is just a plaything for demons who giggle amongst themselves as they spread it over tree toilets and wait for jackholes like me.

Parents: Teach your children about poison oak. Lecture them with PowerPoint; quiz them afterward. Remind them of your friend Jason, who can no longer give to the Sierra Club. And if all else fails, you can always resort to the two magic words: rubbing alcohol.