My husband's new name.

The other night, we celebrated my Grandmother's eighty-eighth birthday at Grecian Gardens. Grandmother's party is always a rocking good time. Seriously. My Grandmother, mother of seven, grandmother of thirteen and mother-in-law to many, knows how to party. So did our waitress who, without being asked, brought me a second Stoli O and club soda before dinner. Do you see where this is headed? Because my family likes to party, bottles of wine kept magically appearing - and disappearing - throughout dinner. I had almond-crusted salmon, by the way, and enjoyed it immensely, along with the Greek salad that came with. There are times when iceberg lettuce trumps all others.

• The Wedge Salad: A quarter of a head of iceberg, chopped tomatoes, crumbled bacon and blue cheese, both dressing and crumbled types. At Dianne's on Devine, my friend Lisa swears by ordering it with a side of vinaigrette. Excellent.
  
  
  
  
  
• The Low Carb Thickburger at Hardee's: Mock if you will. Call me out as a hypocrite next time I ramble on about eating local food. I don't care. The Low Carb Thickburger rules.
  
  
  


• Greek Salad: I've had it with fancy lettuces and I'll always prefer the crisp, cool taste of iceberg. This one, served with a tasty Gyro, was consumed at Devine Foods.
  
  
  
  

But I digress. When we came home, I was babbling - coherently enough, but my husband doesn't listen. Until he does.

"What did you just call me?"

"I didn't call you anything!" I responded, bluffing indignantly, as I couldn't remember what I'd been rambling about.

"You did! You just called me 'Timothy Farthead'!"

I definitely did not, but I like it. My husband is now a small British boy with short pants, a cute little cap and gastrointestinal problems. I'm still trying to figure out what I did say that sounded like "Timothy Farthead." Oh well, some things remain a mystery.

Anyhow, like it or not, "Timothy Farthead" it is, "TF" for short. Long-running jokes reduce the likelihood of a couple being torn asunder, because they're stuck with these really funny jokes no one else will get. I fully intend to insert Timothy Farthead into our shared lexicon - TF's and mine, that is.

We have another joke - hundreds actually, but most of them aren't funny. The Mr. Potatohead ear is very funny. While I can't remember the dawn of the joke, it involves taking turns hiding a Mr. Potatohead ear where the other person will find it. Jokes like this are particularly helpful, especially when the other person finds it in the middle of a fight, because they're suddenly reminded that no one else will ever get their jokes. I once hid it by cramming it into my husband's stick deodorant. Another time, I struggled to cram it into a bottle of B vitamins. Of course he couldn't get it out, so he waited until he finished the vitamins, took the bottle outside and, after carefully inserting it into a paper bag, smashed it. And hid the ear in my bedside table. That's love, y'all*.

Namasté, y'all!

* I know you're all wondering where it is. So was I. Weeks ago, I hid it behind the B-Vitamins in his medicine cabinet. Now we know he doesn't take his vitamins. Now I've hidden it somewhere else. Game ON!