One of the really great things about being married is that at some point in time, you begin to feel like you know everything about the other person. Coming up on my 12th anniversary, I know that's a position my wife and I are in most days.

However, there are those times when little things come to the surface that are complete surprises — which can be a good or a bad thing, depending upon what the unknown fact is.

One of those situations occurred last week with me while we were vacationing and I found myself navigating Florida's highways in a large SUV.

Exiting the highway and entering the parking lot of a rather crowded grocery store, my head began pivoting from side to side in search of the perfect spot. I looked a lot like a teenager on the beach hoping to go unnoticed while scouting the opposite sex.

"There's one," pointed out my always helpful navigational assistant, also known as my wife.

I grimaced, certain that we'd discussed this before, but not certain when.

"I can't park there. It's a left-handed space." I waited for the tidal wave of insults, chuckles and eventual barrage of jokes.

"What do you mean, it's left-handed?" She gazed at the perfectly aligned space that was not angled in either direction and in fact, ran parallel to the store.

"The way to pull in. I have to turn in to my left. I can't park left-handed."

Now you can call it a moving violation or a shortfall in the commonwealth of Pennsylvania's licensing bureau, but in order to get your license, you don't need to park in an actual stall. Instead, you need to parallel-park, which I can do better than most NASCAR drivers pulling into a pit stop.

"Hmmm."

This was not the response I was expecting.

She continued.

"But you're left-handed. It doesn't make any sense."

"Yes, but that means I'm right-brained, remember?"

We talked about this six years ago on our way to Hilton Head after she tried explaining genetics' "Big B" and "Little B" theory and how our kids would only have a 25 percent chance of blue eyes. She was right, by the way.

There was a silence that lasted slightly longer than the time it took for all of us to catch our breath when Big Ben wrecked this past week, and then she broke the quiet calm.

"There's a right-handed space over there in the middle of nowhere." She smiled.

Like a man, I forced the SUV into the left-handed space instead of driving any distance, and after several shifts forward, backward and sideways, announced that I had, in fact, parked the car.

Exiting the car and reviewing my work, I determined that someone other than myself had parked the car. Someone quite inebriated and directionally challenged, as well as someone that could not see the bright yellow lines outlining my parking space

There was a snicker from you know who.

"What's so funny? Do you think I don't know that you can't park right-handed? And you drive in the left lane when no one's around?" Take that, my fair-skinned parking expert!

Touché! Maybe I'll wait another 12 years to surprise her by kicking a ball with my right foot or letting her catch me reading something other than sports, which will really keep the surprises coming in this great marriage!

Thanks for making all of my left-handed, right-brained adventures fun, Melissa.

I love you.