It's been an amazing 17 years since my spouse and I tied the knot at the Chapel of Love. In that time, I have to say that we're still in our honeymoon phase (he says "honey..." when I moon), and we've both grown to love each other's foibles, embraced, tripped over or found under couch cushions.

Little things find appreciation in that time. For example, I appreciate that my car insurance is finally leveling out after having initially spiked higher than a ball during the Lambeau Leap.

You got to keep the moose head in the bedroom, and I was allowed to keep the cabbage rose curtains in the living room.

I appreciate that you put the toilet seat down. I can't tell you how cold it is to fall in at 3 am in the morning. Those bruises on my eyelids? Those would be from my knees flying up in the air at terminal velocity. Not anymore. Thank you.

Even though we've been married for almost a generation, you're still a mystery. For instance, I have no idea what you keep in the garage. To me, it's a bunch of little metal balls. Every where. I don't know why a person collects that many ball bearings. And that's all right. I'm not asking any questions.

I know you have no idea whatsoever what 'dry clean only' means when we're discussing the new bedding set that I made for the room. You know it means that there are bigger pillows than Pamela Anderson probably fluffs. It actually means you can't throw your towel on the bed after I've made it.

You have thirteen kinds of saws. There are more varieties than I have shoes. I know they all cut something. Right?

I don't ask questions about the comic books. It might be fictional and comprised wholly of pictures of men in tights, but you're reading. Good for you.

Tools. Don't try to explain them to me. I know they have two states of being: on, or on my kitchen counter. When you get that dreamy look in your eyes because you want a masonry saw with triple agility and three- phase power for cutting bricks, all I hear is "Would you like to shop for fabric?"

There really are more than 5 shades of white, and I'm constantly amazed that you can't tell the cool and warm tones apart, let alone the color undertones.

Yes, I really do need all those pillows on the bed. You have clamps. I have pillows.

Never try to get me to learn or understand how to tabulate your fantasy football scores, and I promise I'll never ask you to watch "Sailor Moon."

The last time I sent him out for feminine protection, he brought home a pink .44 magnum with silver bullets. Somehow he thought, "that time of the month cycle" had to do with werewolves. I'd take away his Stephen King books. But at least he's reading.

I know where the oil comes out of the car, but if I knew where it went in, I would change my own oil. I tried the dipstick, and it took entirely too much time to pour the entire 4 quarts in there.

You own more tube socks than I do and laugh whenever someone gets hits in the reproductives on television. That's ok. I laugh at "Real American Hero" beer ads on sports radio.

Women don't break wind. We effervesce. There's a difference. And no, I won't pull your finger. Again.

I appreciate that you love me enough to see through my foibles, but if you ever tell your friends where I pluck, I'll tell my friends that you sniff test your pants for wear ability.

In return, I promise that if you never ask me to pick up lag bolts from the hardware store, I'll never ask you to pick up feminine products, even though they're all shaped similarly.

And because I love you, Yes, I also love to hold your hand. After 17 years of wedded bliss, not only do I adore you more than ever, find you more attractive everyday, and love you more than words can say, I'd hate for you to get hit by a car.

You don't always look before you cross the street.