Yesterday Steve had a nose job. Well, not so much a nose job as a septum job. A septoplasty, to be exact. No, it wasn’t because of all those drugs he did in the 70s, but rather because his septum was contorted to one side so severely that I was tempted to ask him to carry all my loose change and keys in it.

Men being men, and Steve being one of them meant that there was no way he was ever going to actually do anything about it, even though the Ear-Nose-Throat doc he saw when he went through his round of sleep studies 10 years ago told him he should. Enter, the wife.

At Porter’s last ear-tube check-up I casually inquired about the procedure, and indicated that my husband had been recommended for it a while back. He suggested setting up an appointment. You can imagine the joy and excitement when I came home and handed Steve an appointment card for the following Thursday. So one thing leads to another and the next thing we knew Steve was heading into surgery. He came out an hour and forty five minutes later wearing a nose bra.