Why July 4th?

Why choose July 4th to declare our independence?  Were our Founding Fathers too lazy to pick a better date for Independence Day?  Or were they just too anxious?  Yes, I understand the urgency of action that was required.  We had already lost a lot of lives and wasted a lot of tea in our quest for independence.  It was time to act.  We needed an event that would be more effective than the previous arguing, fighting and galloping through town in the middle of the night.  Clearly the cool slogans and weird looking flags were not enough.  We needed more serious, consequential and result-oriented ACTION.  Something strong and flashy and intense and intimidating.  The time had come to finally show we meant business by writing stuff down on a piece of paper and having a million people sign it in all different sizes.  That would surely do the job.

So I understand that they were ready for the big change, but why did it have to be done on July 4th?  It seems like sort of a random day.  Wouldn’t it have made more sense to do it on January 1st and start the new year with a bang?  New Year, New Country.  Or if they couldn’t wait that long, couldn’t they at least have waited until August 1st so that the new country was born neatly at the beginning of the month?  They could have used the rest of July to plan a little more, maybe get the thing typed up or printed nice and neat.  They could have squared out the edges of the paper  or added some signature lines.

Maybe they couldn’t wait until after July.  Perhaps the events of the moment called for some spontaneous Declaration writing.  But even if that were the case, they could have gone the other direction and gotten it done earlier.  Maybe if Jefferson spent a little more time on planning and a little less time in the slaves’ quarters he could have gotten his assignment completed 4 days earlier before July kicked in.

Furthermore, July isn’t the ideal month for this sort of thing.  Isn’t it hot enough already without having to declare your independence?  I mean there was no air conditioning, no Frogg Toggs Chilly Pad Cooling Towels and no bottles of Corona Light to cool you down.  Maybe September 1st might have worked better.  Kick off Autumn with some freedom.  Listen to the Labor Day Vivaldi Block Party Weekend on the radio while the temperature cools down, barbecue up some corn and then Bam! - hit England with the bad news.

Nor is the 4th of any month a great day to start a country.  The switch-over really must have messed up the July book-keeping for those who were billing the government.  Monthly invoices had to be split in 2.  July 1st through July 3rd was billed to England or “The Colonies” or whatever entity was paying the bill.   July 4th through July 31st was billed to the new United States of America.   (They probably wondered: Should we even bill them?  How long is this new union gonna last anyway?)

Then again, maybe it all makes sense.  Perhaps it is just another example of what makes this country great.  We do things on our own terms; when we’re ready.  Rules are nice when they are convenient.  But otherwise, screw it.  Who needs to start at the beginning of a month.  We’ll declare our independence whenever the heck we want.  July 4th, April 26th, October 19th.  We’re independent when we say we’re independent!  Doing what we want, when we want - it’s the American Way.

Jack Daniels and Golf. Part 3: Tennessee

There we were.  Two veteran Metalheads standing in the middle of a mostly empty Country Music Hall in downtown Nashville, Tennessee.  Music wasn't the reason for our trip but when you are in a town rich with music history you can't ignore it. 

Ernie and I had flown into Nashville to begin our 5 day, 5 state golfing excursion.  Our plan: Gobble up states for the friendly "golf in all 50 states" bet we had going with some friends, detour to the venerable Jack Daniel's Distillery like moths to a flame and "bookend" our brief trip with another legendary music town, Memphis ... But first there was Nashville. 

We only had one night in Nashville.  It wasn't a priority. It was our port of entry and a launching pad for our crusade.  But hey, it's still Nashville.  So, after checking in to our hotel and inhaling dinner we set out to search for a brief but fulfilling Nashville experience.  It didn't take long. Walking through downtown we ended up in front of a window filled with neon signs advertising Budweiser, line dancing and a mechanical bull.  We stood side by side staring at the window like two kids in a Norman Rockwell painting.  Surely Dolly Parton and Garth Brooks must be hanging out here tonight. So what if the closest thing to a country music song I know is The Theme from the T.V. Show "Rawhide," thank you, we'll become the Dukes of Hazzard by osmosis in this place.  In we went. 

Visually, the place didn't disappoint: Huge wood dance floor. Horseshoe shaped bar.  Bull machine. Honey Tonk vibe. You could picture Willie Nelson on the stage and Reba Macintyre hanging out at the bar. (I'm running out of country music star names very quickly).  The problem was, nobody was there.  The joint was almost completely vacant. 2 or 3 customers and no band. The mechanical bull sat neutered and silent.  I guess a Wednesday night in late July was not the peak country music night in Nashville. We downed a few Jack and Cokes and rationalized that we should get a good night's sleep anyway so we could hit the road early in the morning.  The whole South was waiting for us.

The next morning was a perfect Southern Summer day.  The sun was beaming and it was hot but not unbearably so.  We completed our tour of Nashville by visiting a few key spots and gazing across the river at the shiny new football stadium built for the infant expansion football team, The Tennessee Titans.  Ernie's lifelong loyalty as a New York Giants fan is surpassed only by his impulsivity. He decided right then and there that he would become a Titans fan.  (It lasted six months).  We swung by a souvenir shop, bought Ernie a Titans hat and set down the yellow brick road that led to our personal Emerald City, the Jack Daniels Distillery. 

Today was the day!  We had 5 states to golf in 5 days but our route led us first to Lynchburg. Well, almost first. As a desperate attempt to infuse some minuscule amount of culture in our trip we stopped at a historical Civil War battle site which was directly on the path to Lynchburg. Our anxiety would not have allowed any detour which would have significantly delayed our arrival at Jack's home, but our route took us practically straight through the battlefield; so we could afford a brief viewing. And brief it was. We got out of our rental, took a few steps and looked around.  Ernie fell on the ground near a cannon and played dead while I snapped a photo and back into the rental car we went.  

Our anticipation built with every mile. We drew closer and closer to Lynchburg. We could feel it in our bones. (And see it on the street signs).  We schemed and planned.  We daydreamed and imagined.  We couldn't wait to find out what spectacles awaited us.  And most importantly, we couldn't wait to taste the Jack Daniels directly from the source.  We figured that it couldn't get any fresher than straight from the distillery. We wondered whether we would be able to taste all the different varieties of Jack Daniels. Perhaps they even prepare a special batch for the visitors. 

As we got closer to Lynchburg, we burned a hole in the floor of the car as we urged it along with our running feet, Flintstones style.  After an endless amount of miles, the moment was finally upon us.  As we pulled into the parking lot at the Jack Daniels Distillery we practically launched out of our seats as the car was moving.  We almost forgot to stop and park the car.

We looked around, soaking in the aura of this mystical place. Giant warehouses smirked at us knowingly.  The thought of their contents warmed our hearts and heightened our senses. We floated to the Welcome Center and signed up for the tour. We glanced around, looking for samples or Jack for sale. Surely there must be some special taste of Jack Daniels available to welcome us "home". Nothing was evident. I guessed that they saved it all for the end of the tour, ushering us into the always-present "gift shop" where a small taste would whet our desire to spend money on Jack.

We gathered for the tour. After a few minutes of anticipation, a man introduced himself as our tour guide.  I don't recall his name but I remember that he certainly fit the part.  He looked a bit like an extra from the movie "Deliverance".  But he was nice and we hung onto his every word. 

After a brief well rehearsed introduction by our guide in his southern drawl, we were off and running.  The group consisted of Me, Ernie and approximately 10 other guests. The other guests were a necessary part of our journey. They were like Golem accompanying Frodo and Samwise to Mordor.  We didn't even need to meet them to know that they couldn't have the loyalty and passion for Jack Daniels that we had. They were probably just passing by and stopped on a whim. There was no way they stuffed belongings into sacks, boarded magical flying machines and provided payment and collateral for the use of a motorized vehicle like we had.   They couldn't have crossed cultural borderlines and sacrificed days of their busy lives just to pay homage to the man and the legend  both known as Jack Daniel(s).  They were there incidentally; we were there with purpose.

As our tour advanced, our guide led us through the various buildings and sites which make up the grounds of the distillery.  Each stop led us through a new stage of the process:  The limestone cave which is the source of all the water used to make Jack Daniel's ; the pallets of wood waiting to be transformed into charcoal; the massive vats where the early mixture is distilled and seeped through said charcoal to mellow the taste; the locked up containers displaying the resulting immature mixture they call "Baby Jack"; the Barrelhouses where the Jack is aged in wood barrels until ready for consumption; and finally the century and a half old safe that was Mr. Jack's doom. (Legend says that he kicked the safe when he couldn't remember the combination. The resulting infection eventually killed him.)

All the while, the sights and smells seeped into our bodies. Our craving for Jack slowly simmered and built to a boil.  It was a hot southern summer day and the heat and humidity did their part to build our thirst. As we moved through the stages of Jack preparation we salivated like babies watching our mother prepare a bottle. We didn't want the tour to end yet we couldn't wait for the opportunity to finally taste the fresh Jack Daniels. It would be like nothing we had experienced before.  A golden elixir to sate our desire.  Finally the time came. We returned to the reception center where our tour started. I glanced around as our guide gave us his concluding remarks. I was looking for the tasting cups - maybe little shot glasses filled with gratis Jack. Maybe a bar where we could order more.  We had made it through the Sahara - past all the forbidden oases.  Now it was time to visit the Sultan's tent. 

I didn't see any tent. No shot glasses.  No bar. Not a single bottle of Jack Daniels anywhere. Maybe there was a different room. I raised my hand and asked our guide.  "Where do we get to taste the Jack?" The response was like a right jab from Mike Tyson, "There is no tasting, Son. Don't you know that Lynchburg is in a dry county?  You can't serve or sell alcohol anywhere in Moore County." 

What?!?!  How can that be?  The very birthplace and continued home of Jack Daniels is in a dry county?  Oh, the irony.  Oh, the agony.  Oh, the absurdity!  This wasn't right.  This couldn't be.  I understood how dry counties still existed in the South but wasn't there at least some special dispensation for the distillery from the Tennesse Governer or the Pope or someone?  Apparently there wasn't. And there we were, surrounded by Jack of all forms, unable to taste any of it. Our tour passes hung around our necks like the Ancient Mariner's albatross.  "Jack, Jack everywhere and our saliva glands did shrink.  Jack, Jack everywhere nor any drop to drink" ...

(Edit 4/26/2024: Several years later, the distillery was granted an exemption to allow for tasting tours.)

(to be continued)

Jack Daniels and Golf. Part 2: Jack Daniels

Jack Daniel's is my drink. Jack and Coke, to be more precise. People ask why. I don't know. I guess the taste of the Tennessee Whiskey blends well with the sweet yet tart Coca Cola.

 I am also obsessive. I am also compulsive. I also like to collect things. Thus my basement bar is a virtual shrine to Jack. Fortunately for me, I have friends who also like Jack Daniels. One in particular - we'll call him "Ernie" - has been my main partner in Jack Drinking for three or four score, now. (I'd be more precise but I can't remember how many years a "score" is.)

One day, many moons ago, Ernie and I were opening a new bottle of Jack. In case you are not a Jack Daniels connoisseur, you should know that no two bottles of Jack taste exactly alike.  The distinction is slight and the uninitiated (non-lush) wouldn't even notice the difference.  But those of us who drink enough Jack to refer to him as "John" (as the famous movie quote goes) can detect the subtle nuances.   I could bore you with the details of why this is, but essentially it is because Jack is aged in different barrels in different parts of the warehouse.  Thus, there are minor distinctions in taste for each barrel. Because of this, for us, there is a teeny bit of anticipation in the opening of a new bottle. What will this one be like?  Slightly harsher? Slightly smoother? More “oaky”?  So, on that fine day back in the last millennium, Ernie and I proclaimed that the opening of a new bottle of Jack should be accompanied by a brief ritual.

The first taste of a brand new bottle of The American Icon that is Jack Daniel's deserved a fitting ritual.  We wanted something original and appropriate.  The first thing that came to mind was obvious to any drinker: let's do a shot. But that wasn't geekily unique enough. The ritual had to be accompanied by more. After a brief brainstorming session we agreed that the the shot should be accompanied by a toast involving Mr. Jack in a uniquely different way each time.  Finally, this should be done while facing towards Lynchburg, Tennessee, the home of the Jack Daniel's distillery.

Brilliant original ritual.  But several thoughts may have entered your mind at this point (aside from "why hasn't his wife left him yet?") (Edit 4/26/2024: She eventually did.)

First: How do you know what direction Lynchburg is in?  Good question.  We consulted a map (an actual map, not Mapquest) and settled on facing generally south-southwest while in New York. Hey, this wasn't rocket science. Nobody was monitoring two OCD borderline-alcoholic dorks toasting a 19th century booze hawker.  We'd just do our best and let 'em rip.  (Having said that, a year or two ago I did spend a little time with my iPhone compass and a mapping website trying to more accurately identify the direction from my house towards Lynchburg.  After completing my computations, I put an arrow on the ceiling of my basement which I believe points fairly accurately in the correct direction. However, I had to do it outside and remember the direction once I entered my basement.  Since my basement is kind of like the hatch from LOST it is difficult to keep track of direction after you enter it. So I'm not really sure if the arrow points to Lynchburg or Anchorage.  Don't tell Ernie.) I also toyed with the idea of buying a statue of Mr. Daniel to put in the corner of my basement that we would look towards. But I decided that our little ritual was close enough to breaking the First Commandment without placing an actual idol in our presence. (Truth be told, I did order the statue, but it was apparently discontinued between the moment I ordered it online and the moments later that the order was to be processed.  G-d works in Mysterious ways. Praise the Lord, the one and only true god. (That should cover me.))

Anyway, back to our borderline sacrilegious ritual.  The next question you may ask is what kind of toast is required?  Very simple rule: it must somehow mention Mr. Jack by name. You can toast the time of year, the weather, a recent occasion, the Mets trading Armando Benitez, whatever. As long as you include Jack in the toast. An example: "To Mr. Jack, whose fine spirits help make this Cholera more bearable."

Being card-carrying Jack fans (we literally are - we're Tennessee Squires - not gonna take the time to explain - Google it.) we spent several years fantasizing about one day taking a pilgrimage to Lynchburg.  Eventually, that time arrived.  It was July1999.  The "golf in all 50 states" bet that Ernie and I were involved in with several other friends had slowed to a crawl. We decided that a secret driving adventure through several southern states was in order.

We did not tell our friends what we were planning.  We didn't even tell them we were taking a trip together.  We stealthily planned our journey.  2 Yankees (ironically Mets fans) flying into Nashville, driving through Old Dixie and ending up in Memphis, collecting golf states along the way.  The highlight of the trip: a stop in Lynchburg, Tennessee and the Jack Daniels Distillery.  Airline tickets were purchased, hotel reservations made and the dreaming began. 

I imagined the distillery tour would be much like Willy Wonka's factory, but for drunks. Jack's great-great-great grandson would lead us through the hallowed halls where the Jack is readied for the world while Oompa Loompas wearing Levi's jeans, flannel shirts, bandanas and trucker hats sang in southern drawl.  "Oompa Loompa doopity doo, I've got some charcoal-mellowed whiskey for you!" We would all end up in a giant enchanted banquet hall (a la Harry Potter) where bottles of Jack hung mystically in the air above banquet seats, waiting to be imbibed. A grand tasting would ensue. We would teach the Jack folks our ritual. (Although I'm not sure what direction we would face for our toast), have a roaring evening of Jack drinking, become esteemed guests and leave showered with rare Jack Daniels collectables and demands that we return often.

Dreams are dreams and reality is, well ... let's just say it didn't quite work out that way.  When we finally giddily rolled into the town that was our personal Mecca, we had overlooked one minor detail ....

(to be continued)

Jack Daniel's and Golf. Part 1: Golf

Two of my interests are Jack Daniel’s and Golf. I am very good at drinking Jack Daniel’s. I stink at golf. But my friends and I seem to make sport out of many things we do. O.K. - I know Golf already is a sport, but we made more of a sport out of the sport. You see, it wasn’t enough for us to just play some golf when we had the chance. We had to make a giant, countrywide game of chance out of a nice peaceful pastime.

The concept of the bet itself was quite simple:  First person to play golf in all 50 States wins the bet.  The Prize?  A "state of the art" modern home entertainment system.  Seemed pretty cool. An extra excuse to go traveling and a built in excuse to golf wherever you go.  Simple and awesome. Until my "recently graduated from law school" brain got involved. 

A myriad of inquiries developed in my head: 
What constitutes a round of golf? 9 holes? 18?  How will one prove he completed a round? 
Do Par 3 courses count? What about Pitch-n-Puts?  50 States of miniature golf, anyone?  
What's a state, really?  What about Puerto Rico?  What if Texas secedes? What if Disney buys Cuba and annexes it? 
What if it rains on the last hole? What if zombies swarm the golf course?  
How do we determine what a "state of the art" entertainment system is?  Can I get a holo-deck if I win?  
These questions and others resulted in my drafting a sort of rule book. I had never drafted any document in my life.  I spent most of my law school Contracts class doodling pictures of our professors.  But I put my heart and soul into imagining and analyzing the angles, predicting all the loopholes and drafting a Golf Bet Agreement that rivaled the Geneva Convention. Then I held a Summit for the potential participants: a gathering of the minds to review the logical answers to the questions and all the other statutory proposals set forth in my debut legal treatise; to debate the issues and suggest changes.

They didn't give a crap.  "Show me where to sign and hand me a putter" was the general sentiment. 

It started with six of us. Each around the age of 25. Each unmarried. Each without kids. Each of us publicly saying this would be a lifelong process but secretly thinking we'd wrap the bet up in a few years.   We had youth, freedom and male idiocy on our side.  

We started out strong. I put a big map up on the wall of our spare bedroom. I made a legend and used color-coded tacks to track each participant's progress. It was like a military war room. The cold war was dead but the golf war had begun!

The "war" started peacefully.  Some of us even golfed the first few states together, planning road trips just so we could golf.  One such trip included golfing at "Tom Mitchell's Golf Gridiron" in Maryland., a grassless unmaintained field with 9 holes run by a retired professional football player.  You could play better golf on I-95.  We all racked up a few Eastern Seaboard States and we had viable contest going.  However, as the months turned to years, the field soon narrowed and it became clear that this would probably be a 2 or 3 way race. It seemed that some idiots were just more committed than others.  Or maybe just more idiotic.

After several years, the three front runners remained fairly close in numbers.  But I gained a slight tactical advantage when my honeymoon conveniently turned out to be located in Hawaii.  What an exciting opportunity!  I picked a day, booked my wife at the spa and off I went into the brisk (85 degree) Maui morning!  Perhaps leaving your wife for a day during your honeymoon to boost your moronic almost unattainable quest to best your friends at something trite is not the best way to kick off a marriage.  And perhaps King Kamehameha's spirit or the tiki g-ds of Brady Bunch fame were trying to point this out to me when my rental convertible broke down on the way to the remote golf course, requiring me to spend several hours drinking iced Kona coffee at a gas station in the middle of a rainforest while waiting for the rental company to bring me out a replacement vehicle. But spirits and matrimony be damned, I carried on!  I wasn't going to squander the once in a lifetime opportunity to golf on a remote pacific island that my friends could not get to easily.  (I'm told it is also a beautiful tropical paradise back-dropped by wildlife, plantations, volcanoes, sparkling blue water and white sands.  Whatever.)

(Edit 4/26/2024: I also eventually obtained the tactical state of Alaska but as of 2024 the bet is quite stagnant)

A few years later, one of the other two front runners also planned his honeymoon in Hawaii, of all places.  How lame is that?  What an obvious copycat. 

More years went by and life happened.  The bet was slowing down.  The "war room" became the baby's room; the map replaced by a shelf for diapers.  By now, one of the three front runners fell a bit behind.  However, the bet was still pretty close when I decided to make a secret run for a bunch of states to jump out ahead.  I had a great idea for a trip.  But first I need to tell you about my good friend Jack Daniel. 

to be continued ...

Laundry

Folding laundry. What a darn simple way to contribute to the household and get some points with my wife. Heck, I can even do it while I watch t.v.!  True Blood and tanktops.  Dexter and denim.   Shortly after my folding debut, I announced to my wife that I would fold the laundry for the second week in a row.  Imagine my surprise at her softspoken response: "Um, no, that's o.k."  She didn't even look me in the eye. "Why not?" I asked, quizically. Her explanation: "Well, you kind of do it wrong." Do it wrong?  What's to do?  Fold, repeat. No lathering, no rinsing - its a simple ONE-step process.   But apparently, something prevented me from being successful at a chore that a semi-trained space monkey should be able to complete.

It turns out that I folded shirts the wrong way.  Who knew? I never thought I would regret taking "Shop" instead of "Home Ec." in High School. But now I did. My pathetic excuse for a birdhouse, the building of which almost cost me a finger, was now long gone. The opportunity to build it could have been traded for the lifelong skill of "shirt folding".  Perhaps law school was the wrong choice after all.  Instead of 3 years of study in the nation's capital, 2 hours of training at Banana Republic would have better prepared me with more useful life skills.  Maybe then I would have known that you should NEVER fold a shirt down the middle.  You must fold in the arms instead.

That could have been my "out." I could have feigned an incurable inability to properly fold shirts and been forever free of this mundane household task.  But the perfectionist in me reared its forsaken head.  I insisted I could be taught the correct way to fold. I demanded a demonstration and quickly learned the way of my Jedi folding master.

Sure it was easy. But "easy" swiftly begets "boring." Even with my DVR and Netflix to entertain me I quickly got sick of folding. Especially when my iPad was sitting next to me, beckoning like a mythological Siren. "Come on," it would say as it watched me fold. "Wouldn't you rather check George Takei's Facebook Status than organize your kids' socks?" Yes. Yes I would!

But I stayed strong. I forced myself to finish folding all 37 loads of laundry each week before rewarding myself with another Scrabble loss. The good news was that I could get through half a season of back episodes of Mad Men during each folding session.

But, Lord all the clothes!!!!  Where does all of it come from?  How many freaking kids do we have anyway?  How is this possibly only one week's worth of laundry?  What do they do, bring two changes of clothes to school every day?  Do they run home and shed their daytime outfits to cleanse themselves of the oppression that is Elementary School?  Are they CIA operatives requiring several daily identities?  Or maybe they are harboring refugees in their rooms. Children from third world countries whose parents couldn't afford clothes. Escaping their homelands to live out their childhood American dreams of wearing tiny Ed Hardy T-shirts and Justice jeggings.

How many sets of pajamas does a 7 year old need to get through one night of sleeping?  I imagined him trying them on at bedtime. "Nope, I'm just not feeling SpongeBob tonight," he says, stripping off the first set and tossing it into the laundry. "Let's try football.  Nope, that's not right either," as the second set follows the first. And so on ...

It's not just the kids, though.  I eyed my own clothing and took a quick inventory.  I really wore that shirt this week?  What about those exercise clothes?  What are they doing here? I recall thinking about the gym at 6:30 several mornings. But did I actually make it there?  Unlikely.

I wracked my brain for some explanation.  Wasn't there somyething in one of the Harry Potter books about elves and clothing?  Or was that shoes?  Anyway, I concluded that our house is infested with laundry elves. Little troublemakers who take our clothes off the shelves and out of the drawers and throw them in the laundry. Sometimes they even pour food on them to make them look worn. This must be the answer. There is no other logical conclusion. Just elves.

So now, when a shirt is occasionally found in a drawer folded incorrectly, we know it's the elves.

Pillows

I'm very particular. It's really annoying but I am whom I am.  

One of my peculiar particularities is that I only sleep well on my own carefully tested and chosen combination of pillows. I have three.  I rest my head on two and I use the third as a semi-socially acceptable adult substitution for a teddy bear. Or as I call it, a "snuggle pillow."

The two "head" pillows are a complementary pair consisting of a mushy soft bottom pillow and a slightly firm yet yielding top pillow. Scientific testing has determined this to be the correct combination I require for what passes as a decent night's sleep. 

The "snuggle pillow" is spongy and squeezable. It is for wrapping your body around during nocturnal contortions. 

So the problem arises once a month on a Tuesday night. Our house cleaner comes on Tuesdays and she rotates washing the bed sheets in each of our four bedrooms each week. I don't keep track of this rotation so I never know what week is Master Bedroom week. In fact, I really don't think about it at all until I lay my weary head down approximately one hour later than I intended to be retiring.  I have summoned all remaining will to brush, rinse, clean, change and plop into bed. It is at that exact moment that I discover the "pea" under the mattress. My sixth sense of comfort detects that something is awry in the Pillowdom. My neck is at an angle 1.6 degrees too high. My legs drape over a pillowcase filled with mashed potatoes. This is all wrong and I don't have the strength to deal with it.  After years of this almost monthly occurrence, I have developed a Pavlovian response consisting of anxiety, anger and immaturity.  

If my wife is lucky she has not yet crawled into bed. She will not have to endure my pre-teen-like fit and antics. If she is not so fortunate, she will be awoken by some huffing, puffing and general grumbling. She will barely make out words and phrases like "again!" and "she does this on purpose" accompanied by some dramatic gestures as I strip the pillows of their mismatched garments. 

To facilitate the righting of the wrong, I have tatooed each of the pillows with their proper vertical daytime location. This branding allows for swift identification and reorganization, leading to a succinct conclusion to the inconvenience. Unless... 

On occasion, the house cleaner will be so negligent and careless as to not only rearrange the pillowcases of my pillows but to also actually allow them to socialize and co-mingle with their female counterparts from the other side of the bed. In her own haste to accomplish her tasks and conclude her cleaning day, she may occasionally (presumably unknowingly) conduct a pillow swap. One (or more) of my pillows may remain with my wife's pillows, replaced by the foreign feel of one (or more) of my wife's inferior pillows. 

Pity the spouse who must learn that her status is secondary to that of a pillow.  While I fully appreciate and respect the value of well earned sleep to a working wife and mother of 2, no sleeping angel will come between me and my own prerequisite for a good night's slumber. Should one of my pillows be located beneath my wife's sleeping head, I cannot be held responsible for the selfless act required for its retrieval.  Fortunately, usually a gentle verbal request will suffice; but I am not above a Navy Seal style extraction, should it become necessary. 

Once the recovery is complete, order is restored to my nest and I can finally rest easy ... until next month.