It's spring, and the suburban Da Vinci is thinking

I probably worry too much. For instance, I worry about the increasingly strange color of Arnold Schwarzenegger's hair -- an odd, orange, Popsicle hue. I worry over how much toilet paper our family goes through in a week -- 400 rolls. And that the stuff oozing out from under the car might be blood.

I worry that the sprinklers on the hill behind the house aren't working right. I watch as the sprinklers cycle through their multiple programs, something every homeowner should do to check for leaks, accompanied by a glass of wine and a $5 cigar. Where there is worry, there is progress. Puff, puff, slurp. . . .

"What's that smell?" Posh asks from the back doorway.

"Flowers," I growl.

Yuck, flowers. They can pretty much ruin spring for me. The other day while jogging, I turned the corner and ran right into a wall of fragrance so powerful that I passed out and was mowed over by the last milk truck in America. The big cow. Got morphine?

What a spring. My NCAA bracket is a total disaster. Halfway through, I apparently lost focus and started filling out my T-ball team's lineup. Then, where I should've written in my elite eight, I penned a letter to Time magazine about Schwarzenegger's troubled hair.

"Like a sugar maple in late October," I wrote.

Then there's the problem I'm having with the little German in the garage. I own, apparently, the last coal-powered car in America. The most recent smog check cost me 4,000 bucks. For that, I could've seen a movie.

Now there's that blood pooling ominously beneath the engine, and last week the radio quit working. Time to sell.

"What are you doing out here?" Posh asks as I sit on the patio, smoking a stale cigar.

"Thinking," I say.

"You?"

We're still getting acquainted, Posh and I. There are so many things to learn about a person. Apparently, 30 years just aren't enough. The other night at a party, I overheard her tell friends that she has a very addictive personality.

"Huh?" I said, choking on a meatball.

"Why else would I have stayed with you?" she asked.

Now I have to explain to Posh that I am something of a visionary. Sort of a suburban Da Vinci. I'm always asking, "What if . . . . What if . . . ." Like, what if the kids emptied their own wastebaskets? What if they helped carry groceries from the car to the house?

"How much wine have you had?" Posh asks, when I tell her this visionary stuff.

"Just the one case," I say.

OK, here's my latest scheme/vision. Ready for this? Are you sitting down?

Backyard fondue.