Rick was the drummer for our band when we were teenagers, and the only member to make music a career. He is north of 50 these days and still plays for a living. He doesn't have a good health plan, no company retirement, and gets no paid sick leave or vacation days. On the bright side, he didn't have to learn a corporate vision statement and spends his time doing something he truly loves. He also has some great stories.

During a week long gig in Tuscaloosa many years back, he noticed the same girl quite taken by his abilities in attendance each night. Taking a break during the last show, he approached her and suggested they go outside and get acquainted.

They soon found things they had in common. As the two new friends sat in his old car and discussed what they liked about each other, the exuberance of their instant bonding caused the car to slip out of gear and roll into a ditch. Neither noticed.

Later, after the conversation lulled and Rick needed to get back on stage, the young lady helped him push his car out of trouble. We agreed he lost the perfect woman by not proposing on the spot.

Men are obsessed by "The Perfect Woman." We dream of her, talk about her, argue with other men about her qualities. Females have no such delusion. They realize there is no perfect man and would probably make a few changes if they met him. This is strictly a male thing.

A woman with a noticeable amount of guy genes is often mentioned in discussions about The Perfect Woman. I fondly remember someone who could shoot pool better than most guys, drank Bud Light like water, considered college football a religion, and could distinguish between a cut fastball and a slider.

One the surface she appeared to be the perfect woman. In reality, there was something about our DNA mix that made both of us act like opposing ends of a magnet after two days together. Close but no cigar.

A few Saturdays ago, I went to Fishy Business to get supplies for my tropical tank. When I returned, there was a tree lying in the driveway. This isn't unusual at our place. The Woman Who's Garbage I'm Responsible For spends much of her time these days staring into the sky, looking for tree branches contributing to her plants' lack of progress.

This particular tree was cut from a rickety ladder 15 feet in the air with a hand saw. The trunk looked like beaver had chewed it. The effort required to bring it down was substantial. The reason it was lying in the driveway wasn't because it blocked the sun, but because it had been blocking the satellite feed to my Hi Def TV. My. TV. Signal.

I had finally accepted that the perfect woman was an urban myth. Now she might be residing in the same house as me. I need to find my old drummer. Or at least run this one by the Mythbusters.