Dear Hubby,

First of all, you know I love you somethin' awful don't ya Babe? However, I have a few questions to ask you. Number one: If a wife hits her husband across the head with a rubber chicken can it be construed as "spousal abuse" and what is the penalty for that? I need to know this because it could happen.

The reason this could happen will be made clear in the body of this letter.

Do you realize that as a newspaper reporter and journalist, I must have gas? Let me rephrase that. All reporters and journalists need a lot of gas. No, that didn't work either. Okay. Let me try again...In order to report on an event or happening, a reporter must travel to the scene to conduct the interviews. They cannot do this if the gas tank on their car is empty. There, that's better.

Yesterday I had to drive across town. Once again, as it always does, by the time I had backed my car out of the driveway, the "out-of-gas"  light came on. Just in case you haven't noticed the warning light before, it's that little tiny picture of a gas pump on the dashboard. When the car is running on nothing but the fumes, that little gas pump thingy will light up.  This is for people who cannot or will not check the gas gauge to see if it is closer to the letter E than it is to the letter F. 

Sweetie, you do know what a gas pump looks like don't you? If not, I will point one out to you the next time we go into town. (It does seem rather odd though that you never have a problem with your truck running out of gas.) Do you have a magic gas tank?

Also, you must be aware that we have been going through a severe drought here in this area, but yesterday it rained for the first time in months.  The rain was pouring down in buckets full and there I was squinting through the windshield feeling like I was in a high powered turbo jet car wash, trying to figure out where I was, with only minutes to get there and all the while that little picture of the gas tank kept glaring at me. I also didn't have my cell phone because someone let the battery run down.  I'm not pointing any fingers here but it was found on your person last night, with no minutes and no juice left in the battery.

And while we are on the subject of dead batteries, do you remember when you turned the ignition on in order to close the windows in the car last week? Well, you forgot to turn the ignition off again. Yeah, that's the same day I walked 18 miles and got sunburned.

You're the best husband I've ever had, but there are just a few things you need to remember at all times. They are as follows: If you turn it on, turn it off again. If you open it, shut it. If it ain't broke don't fix it, and if you empty it, fill it up again. For as you should know by now, if "honey" ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

So here's what I have decided. You can't use my car anymore. I have hidden the keys in the cookie jar on top of the refrigerator so you can't find them. But in case you do run across them while looking for a cookie, please would you replace the gas in the tank before you park the car in the driveway.

Don't make me get the rubber chicken...