I love my jammies.

“What do you want to do this weekend,” I asked my happy little Austrian Snickerdoodle, Dagmar. “We could go to the park. Or we could go to Le Mars on Sunday to watch the Mighty Mighty Packers beat the woeful Kansas City Chefs. Or we could…”

“Or ve could stay home.”

I looked at her in surprise. “What?”

“Quit looking at me,” she said. “Stop staring.”

“What do you mean, ‘stay home?’ We could go ride our bicycles on the trails,” I continued. “Or we could go watch a band. Or we could…”

“Ve will stay home.”

I looked at her again. She coughed. I put my hands on my hips and prepared to get stentorian. She coughed again, and sniffled, staring at me, waiting. You know, she looked decidedly peaked. Kinda pale, with a sniffle around the edges. I deflated. “Oh,” I said. “You’re not feeling well.” I’m smart that way. I can tell these things.

So we’re staying home.

And, you know, I’m kinda looking forward to it… There are no photos to take, no meetings to attend, no fund raisers to plan, the shopping is done. There is no reason for me to leave the house this weekend at all, unless I need to make an emergency Ny-Quill run or something. All I have to do this weekend is catch up on household errands (which translates into updating web sites and categorizing photos, along with laundry) and pay attention to my beloved vife.

You know, forget the household errands.