Going through the Big D

...and no, I don't mean divorce.

Although, there was a point this weekend that one might have wondered if that might happen. Not really, of course, but one has to raise an eyebrow when I wake up in the morning to find a faux diamond earring on the bedroom floor.

"Is this yours?" I asked the wife.

Her eyebrows, in fact, went up a little as she said, "No."

I'm not sure what brought me to the next words out of my mouth (wishful thinking?): "Are you having a lesbian affair?"

True to form with my wife, she was more worried about the fact that a "cheap, one-earring-having skank" had been invading our home--and, apparently, rolling about on our floors while we were out--than the possibility that I might be having an affair of my own.

As I had ruled out the possibility that some one-eared bimbo had been snooping through my collection of underwear and t-shirts and the wife had ruled out the possiblity that she had been taking part in the love that dare not speak its name, I settled on the next most likely scenario.

It must be my mom's.

Indeed, no, there was nothing Oedipal in my thoughts. In fact, a few months before, my parents had stayed at my house while we were out of town. So, I called up Mom.

"Are you missing an earring?" I asked.

Mom, always one to wonder if she's walking into a loaded question, answered, "No?"

I explained the situation and Mom immediately began backpedaling. She, I think, has less faith in my fidelity than my wife does. Worse yet, I think she fears that infidelity on my part would mess up her life with her grandson.

A day passed before Mom called to ask about the earring, this time offering that maybe she "lost it and just didn't realize it yet." Sure, Mom.

With all scenarios exhausted, I set in to figure out where the earring came from. Only two possibilities remained: Either my wife was indulging in some hot girl on girl action or she actually owned the earring and didn't know it.

So, today, as I set out for the Big D (no, not divorce--keep up, people), I reached into Mrs. Otis' jewelry box. This particular trip required something of my own that I keep inside the container. As I reached in for my booty, I spotted something that looked very familiar.

The other earring.

It seems my wife (despite her protestations that it was not hers, that she doesn't even wear earrings like that, that her ear holes had long since grown over, and that she would never buy earrings like that--DANGLY!) actually owned a set of dangly, faux-diamond hook earrings.

As I displayed them proudly--a detective until the end!--she just muttered, "Well, I didn't buy them."

So, now, as I spend the night in the Lone Star State, I'll wonder a couple of things. First, how bad is my wife's memory? And second, when did my wife start dating women?