I’ve always heard that you shouldn’t go to bed angry at your spouse or other loved one. Kissing and making up prior to sleeping is such a great idea. Unfortunately, it’s another great idea that I have foregone many times in my life. I know why they (whomever “they” are) give that advice, but the reality is that at bedtime, I’m generally still mad as hell, and as such, I am in no place to forgive and forget. In fact, if I said I was sorry when I’m still angry, I would lay awake all night long thinking about how angry I still am and how mad I am that I gave in and said I was sorry when I didn’t have a regretful bone in my body, at least not right then.

I wish I wasn’t so stubborn. I’m fully aware that during any given night, either Bill or I could croak in our sleep. If I was the croaker, it would be Bill who would be left regretting not saying he was sorry. I would be in Purgatory figuring out how I can let Bill know that even though I was mad, I still loved him. If I, however, was the croakee, I would be left to regret my anger. Except I’m so stubborn that I probably would be mad as hell at him for croaking before we could resolve our differences, better known as Bill telling me I was right.

On the last Sunday in what the Catholic Church calls ordinary time, we-the-Catholic-Mass-attenders are treated to my least favorite gospel. It is, of course, the gospel in which Jesus tells his friends that even as they sit and sip wine and eat hummus and gefilte fish, it will all end some day. God made the world, and he can take it away any time he chooses. For the past 2,000 years or so, God hasn’t so chosen, and for that I am grateful. But I know that I’m not getting out of this world alive, even if I outlive the End of the World.

I have never liked movies that deal with the end of the world. Apocalypse movies scare the hell out of me. I tried watching the new television program La Brea for about 10 minutes, until I realized it was about a giant hole opening up in L.A. and sending people to a primeval land that exists below the earth. Frankly, as many Californians as are moving to both of my home towns, I’m surprised there was anyone left in L.A. to fall into a hole at all.

Every time I hear one of those predictions from Bible interpreters or so-called prophets that the world is going to end on July 18, 2027 (I made up that date, by the way; no prophesies happening here), it freaks me out. I am comforted, however, when I hear that Jesus went on to tell them that no one but God knows the day and the time.

So there, Nostradamus. And I’m probably going to go to bed mad at Bill a time or two more before the world ends.