Let me just say my wife, Julie, is a lovely person, perfect in every way–well, not in every way, but I’m willing to overlook many of her short comings. I’m generous like that. However, there is one thing I can’t ignore and that’s when it comes to her and meat.

In the TV news world, if it bleeds it leads. When it comes to my dinner plate, if it bleeds it goes back to the kitchen. I like my meat to come out of the kitchen with more than a suntan. Julie’s different. The girl’s a carnivore and a werewolvian one at that. She’s a meal away from running around on all fours and baying at the moon.

“I used to eat raw hamburger when I was little,” she says proudly.

That’s wonderful, my angel. Wow, am I a lucky boy or what?

Julie has gotten my little foible of wanting my food cooked. When she cooks and cuts the meat open and a trickle of red leaks out along with a yelp, she looks at me with a frown and says, “I’ll put yours back on for a couple of more minutes.”

Yeah, you do that, wolfgirl.

But I forgive her and her animalistic ways. She is who she is. Although, I do get a little worried about having an open cut around her.