Powering the Grid With My Wife’s Anxiety. The price of electricity in California is nuts. Then it occurred to me. Why not just power our grid using my wife’s natural anxiety? After all, she is a fantastic worrier. I actually think that angst may be her superpower. Don’t believe me? Check this out. My wife has expressed extreme anxiety at some point this year about each of the following, listed in ascending order of importance: 1) Artificial Intelligence, 2) An Alien Invasion, 3) Decorative Pillow Tariffs, 4) Shark Attacks and 5) Snakes Crawling Through the Sewer System Up into Toilets. She says all women do this. I’m not so sure. On the other hand, I do know that my mother-in-law does it. She’s like an angst supernova. I’m pretty sure I’d need a permit to hook her up, since she could bust the entire grid. God bless her.

Day Drinking. Occasionally, my wife invites me to sub into her weekly girls’ pickleball game. She swears that pickleball is a sport. I’m not so sure. It feels more like an excuse for a party. Let’s just say this. When the leaf blower guy asks you to dial down the noise because he’s having a hard time concentrating on his work, it could be a sign that your group might be doing too much day drinking.

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Yelling Like an Old Man. My wife doesn’t like the fact that I’m getting older. For one thing, she says I no longer talk like a normal person. Claims I now respond to anything she’s saying by just yelling. I guess it is possible I’m turning into my grandfather. However, the graph below suggests an entirely different possibility.

MY WIFE’S POV

One of the things that really drives my wife nuts is when I point out things that she has definitely inherited from her mom. She loves her mom. So, you think she might take this as a positive. Apparently not.

My mother-in-law is a first-class worrier. She actually invented the concept of “pre-worry”, where you compete to beat others to worrying about new subjects. Things that will never happen.

Here’s a short list of things that currently worry my mother-in-law. Most of which involve me. (I know about this list because she had it hand delivered it me by an express courier.)

- That the running toilet in her guest bedroom will overflow and somehow cause her to drown.

- That I, and therefore her daughter, will run out of money. (To be honest, that one’s not far off.)

- That I will have her committed to a nursing home if she tries to move in. (Again, not far off.)

On a separate note, have you noticed how I select attractive, youngish models to portray my wife in all of my stories? That’s no accident. It’s actually kind of a contractual relationship between us. Make no mistake. My wife is very attractive. And yet, is she currently employed as a model?

FINAL THOUGHTS

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Emoji Talk. I have some free time, so I decided to learn a second language. French seemed hard. So, I chose emoji instead. It’s not too bad once you get the hang of it. For instance, did you know that the cherry emoji 🍒 means you’re in a committed relationship?

Or that these eggplant/peach emojis🍆🍑 mean you’re a vegan? Or so I’m told. I will say this. I am a bit perplexed by the fact that the texts I receive from these vegans are really damn kinky. Personally, I tend to gravitate to emojis that are more literal. For instance, here’s an emoji I text to my boys when I observe them driving recklessly.

And, of course, here’s the emoji that lets people know my wife is going to her book club meeting.

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Fun Bucks. Being in finance, my oldest son is extremely disciplined. Each week, he sets aside a specific amount of money for discretionary spending. He calls this money “fun bucks”. This choice of language is unfortunate. My wife is now obsessed with the concept of “fun bucks”. The concept of “discretionary”, not so much.

Bay Boy The Musical. Hamilton came to our town. I tried to get tickets. No luck. My wife was not happy. So, I decided to take her to Bat Boy the Musical instead. She was suspicious but calmed down when I told her it was one of Lin-Manuel Miranda’s early plays. Surprisingly, it was not good. Perhaps I should have known. After all, Hamilton was inspired by a book written by a Pulitzer prize-winning author about one of the founding fathers of the U.S. Constitution. Bat Boy, on the other hand, was inspired by a fictitious story written in the Weekly World News about a half-boy, half-bat who grew up living in a cave. Am I losing my good judgment?

MY WIFE’S POV

Last month I shared a story where my wife bought me tickets to Phantom of the Opera for my birthday. Bat Boy The Musical wasn’t the perfect corollary (since it wasn’t technically a present), but it was a form of retribution that my wife didn’t ultimately appreciate. I feel that is unfair. Read the reviews. I’m convinced it will end up on the right side of history.

Unfortunately, my retribution led to her retribution. In terms of the concept of Fun Bucks. Unintended consequences, huh?

My wife thought the emoji bit was kind of funny, mostly because she’s really into visual humor. (As I’ve mentioned previously, she isn’t a big fan of my humor. Which is kind of weird, because she married me. And most women say one of the most important characteristics of a future husband is a sense of humor. I guess you can’t believe everything you read in Cosmo.)

I will stand pat on my POV on book clubs. I’ve been to Super Bowl parties where the participants were more cerebral and got less tanked.

FINAL THOUGHTS

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Frontier Airlines. My wife packs for vacations as if we’re never coming back. It’s like she’s loading a 150lb steamer trunk for a voyage on the Titanic. As such, the thought of squeezing everything she wants to bring for a simple weekend trip into a roller bag that must squeeze into Frontier Airline’s “no way your luggage will fit in this” box literally makes me break out in hives. We argued about it a bit. Then arrived at a fair solution. She’s just going to use half of the space in my bag as well. Crisis averted!

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Xanax in Costa Rica. We have a rule that we can’t spend more on our vacation than the rent we earn. (Well, actually, it’s really just my rule.) When we rented our house at the last minute this Thanksgiving, my wife and the boys defiantly declared that we’d be going to Hawaii. Shortly after I searched prices online and my head exploded, I suggested an alternative. Costa Rica. But here was the problem. For the price we could afford, we had to leave Monday morning and return on Friday evening. Challenging but not impossible. After all, the rainforests in Arenal, where we wanted to go, were a mere 80 miles from the airport. So, I booked the flights. Then I found out that the route to Arenal is a tortuous, sloppy and poorly maintained dirt road. (“Senor, you do not wish to drive this road. Be sensible, like your other countrymen, and fly up there.”) But did I listen? Of course not. How bad could it be? The answer? Pretty bad. The fact that the car insurance cost us more than the car rental should have been my first clue. On top of that, when we arrived the guy at the rental agency told me the bridge to Arenal was out. Is that even a thing? Apparently, it is. So, we had to take the back route, for which there was no actual map. Suffice it to say that thanks to our GPS (“Senor, be good to him, he will be your best friend”), WIFI (for the boys) and several Xanax (for Dana), we made it around midnight. It was a voyage that made even the scantily regulated Costa Rican ziplines look tame, but it was worth it.

The George Santos Religious Institute. This year I officiated my nephew’s wedding. It was pitched as an honor. I now suspect that the shrimp may have gone over budget, and they needed to cut costs. No matter. I enjoyed it. You might think that becoming a minister is difficult. It is not. As the salesman from the George Santos Religious Institute informed me, if you’ve watched more than three episodes of “The Love Boat”, you’re already overqualified.

MY WIFE’S POV

Two of these stories illustrate the most fundamental conflict in our relationship. Probably in any relationship. The money.

I’m the bad guy. The one who rejects every single spending proposal based on principle, before really ever taking a look. That’s because, in my experience, most of my family’s spending proposals are outrageous.

My wife is the hero. (At least, that’s how she sees herself.)

I kind of get it.

Had we gone to Hawaii for four days instead of Costa Rica, the journey would have been less stressful.

And had we flown on United, instead of Frontier, our carry-on bags wouldn’t have been an issue.

But where’s the challenge in that, I ask you?

FINAL THOUGHTS

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Magic Beans as an Investment Strategy. Our boys have moved out. We stay connected via text. Their responses aren’t all that rewarding. Yup. Nah. Sweet. (I’m actually starting to feel cheated by all that money we invested in Baby Einstein.) Perhaps I shouldn’t complain. Because the multi-word texts I receive from them are almost never good. (How much collision insurance do we have? Where do we keep the fire extinguisher? I bought some magic beans and now the guy at the bank is telling me they’re worthless.)

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Coyote Alarms. You know how the best part of a birthday is waiting to open the last present, the one that your spouse picked out to make this particular birthday a unique and special event? Yeah, neither do I. That tradition got killed the year that my wife talked about Phantom of the Opera all year and ended up buying tickets for me for my birthday. Anyway, she still holds out the hope that the last present will be the best. Last year I did not disappoint. You guessed it. I got her a coyote alarm. (The many local coyotes are somehow inspired to crap prodigiously on our property.) Actually, there’s no such thing as a coyote alarm per se, contrary to what the roadrunner cartoons would have you believe. But I improvised by buying one of those cheap motion detection alarms. What woman wouldn’t be jealous of my wife? Unfortunately, this alarm was not a complete success. We didn’t catch a single coyote in the act. We did, however, scare the bejesus out of our gardener.

Clown Shoes. I wear big shoes. 14W. People ask how I find them. Especially since I refuse to pay more than $50 for a pair. It’s simple. I wait for normal people to buy the good stuff. Then I buy what’s left. My wife does not care for this strategy. For instance, she thinks these shoes are hideous. I disagree. Just the other day some dude yelled out to me, “nice clown shoes”. So, who looks stupid now? (Hold on. My wife is suggesting that this may not have been a compliment.)

MY WIFE’S POV

This is pretty obvious. Because clearly buying me tickets to Phantom of the Opera was totally fine. I enjoyed myself, didn’t I? (But don’t you dare reciprocate by buying me tickets to WWF.)

BTW, the coyote alarm was a real gift. Obviously, it wasn’t the last gift. Or I’d be dead now. But I really did wrap it. And I really did give it to her.

The shoes thing was real as well. I really do buy the leftovers. The part that wasn’t real was the compliment about the clown shoes. (I wish.)

I really do wear a size 14 shoe. One time way back when we were dating, we found ourselves in a Timberland store. (I know that sounds like a lousy date but I’m pretty sure it was just a small part of the entire evening’s entertainment.) Anyway, there was this big Timberland boot sitting on top of a display. My future wife yelled at me to come take a look at this grotesquely large shoe. Obviously Timberland had commissioned someone to make this obscenely large shoe, simply for the purpose shocking people at the display. I turned it over. And then let her know that this show was actually my size. Now, she thinks that story is hilarious.

FINAL THOUGHTS

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Angry Caricaturists. You know who really deserves the stink eye? Caricaturists. And I’ll tell you why. Because all caricaturists are sadists, that’s why! In terms of pent-up anger, it goes kind of like this. Postal workers. TSA employees. The guy with a master’s degree in French philosophy from Vassar who is now working at Jack in the Box. And then Caricature Artists. Look what this caricature artist did to me!

OK, so maybe I have a big nose. And OK, so maybe I have slits for eyes. But seriously. I paid for this?

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When Cultures Clash. Apparently, Southerners have their own language. For instance, if my wife sees a swan diving for food on a lake she’ll say, “that duck tumped over”. Intuitive, right? Even if tump isn’t exactly by-the-book English. Did you also notice that she calls a swan a duck? Here’s the funny thing. She calls every bird a duck. She calls a swan a duck. She calls a turkey a duck. She calls a chicken a duck. Ever tried making a Tur-duck-en for Thanksgiving? She hasn’t. But she has tried something she likes to call Duck-duck-duck.

Temu Shopping Rules. On the one hand, my wife doesn’t want me to spend money on myself. On the other hand, she doesn’t want me to dress like a hobo. It is a conundrum. Not surprisingly, she’s aghast that I’ve started to purchase clothing like this jacket on Temu. Completely understandable.

MY WIFE’S POV

My wife actually LOVED this edition of Substack because 2/3 of the stories were jokes about me.

Also, she’s proud about being from the South (and why wouldn’t she be) so doesn’t really care if I don’t understand a bunch of the stuff that she says.

She kind of has a point. After all, I took French in high school and the only French phrase I can seem to recall is “Burger Royale”. Which is what they call a Big Mac in France. (Thank you, Quentin Tarantino.)

On the other hand, she is the master of two languages.

And also (smartly) refused to allow herself to be drawn by this (apparently very angry) caricaturist.

FINAL THOUGHTS

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You may also recall that I used to be able to send these stories out unedited. Wow. Those were the days! But no longer. My wife now retains the right of first refusal. That’s fair. Fortunately, she doesn’t seem to take this job all that seriously so I still sneak in some content that maybe I shouldn’t.

Here goes…

Spousal Gaslighting. Unfortunately, my wife treats my cell phone like her personal pager or walkie talkie. Call me. Call me NOW. Call me!!!!!!!!!!! What’s up? The dishwasher is making a funny noise. I have since asked her to separate real emergencies (e.g., mom just fell into a sinkhole) from mundane household projects. This got me nowhere. I then asked my new best friend, ChatGPT, for help. In the voice of the King James Bible. Here’s what I got. And it came to pass that the Lord spoke unto the people, saying: “Verily, thou may hunt down and chastise thy husband in the case of emergencies, and lo, great comfort shall be provided.” And the wives did as the Lord commanded, and several panic attacks were hence avoided. And it was good. But behold, some wives were not content to devote their hysteria to actual emergencies, and gradually they did add “the bathroom sink isn’t draining” and “I’m worried about my mother” to their “why call 911 when I can call my husband” behavior. And the Lord looked down upon these modifications, and He was wroth. For He had not commanded such spousal gaslighting. And the Lord spoke unto the wives, saying: “Thou shalt not hunt down your husbands like common criminals, simply because you think you saw a mouse.” And the wives heeded the words of the Lord, and they did try to stop channeling Will Smith at the Oscars according to His commandment. And it was so. Amen.

Social Media Etiquette. When it comes to utilizing the word of the Lord to modify behavior, my wife is better than I am. She especially enjoys commandments. Examples include…

1) Thou shalt not post an unflattering photo of me.

2) Thou shalt not fail to post all flattering photos of me.

3) Thou shalt basically just check with me on what to do any time you see a photo with me in it.

The Best Daycare Ever. I read a story the other day about a kid who had been raised by wolves. Seriously? You mean there are wolves out there who would have been willing to raise my kids? I’ll bet his parents saved a fortune on food! Our boys eviscerate food. Like velociraptors. Even worse, they’ve started drinking my booze. And that’s where I’ve drawn the line. (Not all heroes wear capes.) Now I hide my booze with the household cleaning materials. I’m pretty sure that the thought of cleaning the house at some point has never even crossed their minds. Problem solved

.

MY WIFE’S POV

I think it is important to note that my wife doesn’t think I’m funny. Having said that, she seems to appreciate the fact that some people think I’m funny. She just doesn’t.

That doesn’t stop my wife from giving me humor ideas. She’s literally a fountain of ideas. (Or, in my case, a broken fire hydrant that never gets repaired.)

Here’s the problem. She adores physical humor. Like Kramer on Seinfeld. Or Jim Carrey in The Mask. Or me accidentally falling on a sheet of ice.

I’ll admit that this stuff is funny but protest that I’m a writer, not an actor. Kramer and Jim Carrey exaggerate in person. I exaggerate on paper.

She doesn’t get it. And so it goes. As the French say, “Isn’t that Jerry Lewis just hilarious?”

To be fair, she absolutely LOVED my Yep/Nope photos. In a way, that’s kind of physical humor anyway. On top of that, I used a pretty much rocking hot model to represent her in the photo. That played very well. And on top of that, she also thinks the story is a modern parable and an important life lesson. That comment kind of gives you an important window into her value system.

FINAL THOUGHTS

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You may also recall that I used to be able to send these stories out unedited. Wow. Those were the days! But no longer. My wife and boys (and their respective legal counsel) now retain the right of first refusal. That’s fair. Fortunately, they’re kind of lazy so I still sneak in some content that maybe I shouldn’t.

Here goes…

World Class Humble Brags. I suck at Facebook. Part of the problem is that I only have five friends. The postman. Aunt Sissy. Uncle Billy. The guy who created the Bloomin’ Onion™. Plus, some dude who works the register at Friendly’s. On top of that, my posts are terrible. My wife says I don’t get it. You don’t post stuff the way it happens. You post stuff the way it makes your life look amazing. For instance, our last ski trip with the boys sucked. Lots of rain. Lots of whining. The spin doctor didn’t see it that way. In her eyes, we snuck in a “quick winter getaway” and were “so proud of our boys for making the best of a difficult weather situation.” Is it just me? Or are 90% of the posts on Facebook just humble brags? I’m really not very good at that stuff. At least that’s what all my MENSA friends tell me.

Shirtless Teens. My boys lift weights. As such, they also enjoy taking off their shirts in public. Me, not so much. Sadly, I remember the day in 8th grade when my youngest first decided to take off his shirt in public. Yep. That’s the day I knew my kid wasn’t going to Harvard.

My Physical Shortcomings. My wife likes to point out my mental faults. But she doesn’t stop there. She takes pleasure in cataloguing my physical shortcomings as well. Like sometimes she’ll start talking to me. Then walk away. But not stop talking. Then walk into the bathroom. Still talking. Apparently still to me. Then she turns on the water. And the bathroom fan. Still talking. Afterwards, she comes out. Wants to know what I think about what she said. When I mention that I lost track once she started gargling, she is incensed. Accuses me of needing a hearing aid. Does not seem fair…

MY WIFE’S POV

Obviously, my wife has seen all of these posts.

To be clear (and she’s kind of making me say this), she doesn’t appreciate them all equally.

She loves the humble brags post, mostly because she doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with humble bragging in general. Partly because she’s good at it. She’s Southern and says it is always kind of been a “thing” down there anyway.

BTW, she thinks my joke at the end of the story is stupid. I actually agree that it is stupid. Who would think that I’m in Mensa, anyway? She thinks it is stupid mostly because she can’t understand why someone would want to hang around with someone in Mensa.

The joke about our youngest son appeals to her because he does lift weights constantly and because he seems to walk around with his shirt off (and looking in the mirror) way too much. She didn’t really care for the Harvard comment, but I told her it kind of made the bit funny. She said she was going to leave the supposed funniness of this whole thing to me.

Finally, she thinks the story about me being deaf is spot on. This is actually a true story. It is why she thinks I am kind of deaf. To be fair, I do pretend to be hard of hearing a bunch around the house. But what married person doesn’t?

FINAL THOUGHTS

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You may also recall that I used to be able to send these stories out unedited. Wow. Those were the days! But no longer. My wife now retains the right of first refusal. That’s fair. Fortunately, she doesn’t seem to take this job all that seriously so I still sneak in some content that maybe I shouldn’t.

Here goes…

Frazzle Meters. I put a frazzle meter on my wife. It simply became a matter of personal survival. As a trained cultural anthropologist, I’ve had the opportunity to observe her under a statistically significant number of conditions. I can now safely confirm that she has five distinct frazzle modes (to which I respond accordingly).

- Pre-Coffee (be on high alert)

- Coffee-Enabled (safe to roam the building)

- Post-Coffee/Pre-Alcohol (don’t criticize anything)

- Cabernet-Enabled (kind of hit or miss)

- Snoozing on the Couch (permissible to tell jokes about your mother-in-law)

I’m starting to wonder if my Nobel Prize may have just been lost in the mail.

The Dollar Store. My boys won’t stoop to my philosophy of buying the cheapest possible food. That leaves me a copious supply. All purchased at The Dollar Store’s annual “I Bet You Won’t Buy This” sale. I asked the Food Bank if they’d take it. No such luck. (Apparently, there’s something in the Geneva convention about it.)

As you can see, I decided to just eat it myself. Now, I understand that it does look like dog food. And yes, I understand that maybe it smells like dog food. And yes, I understand that it’s strange that I’ve started to lift my leg when I pee. But I’m pretty sure it isn’t dog food.

Texting With Your Eyes Closed. My wife isn’t big on proofreading her own notes. And autocorrect isn’t helping. I recently received a text saying “Get a Otis Serena checking on ur way bomb”. She was angry when I didn’t subsequently bring home a rotisserie chicken. We should all be thankful she’s not an air traffic controller. Or a pharmacist.

MY WIFE’S POV

My wife freely acknowledges that transitions through various states of being based on the exact caffeine and/or alcohol content in her body are real. To which she asks, “What is your excuse?”

I will admit that I can be easily goaded into emotional responses, almost as if I have a button on my head that says, “Push me to see this guy go nuts!” My wife, after many years of marriage, knows how to elicit these responses with extreme skill. And the stereo effect of having my mother-in-law join in with her on the “let’s see if we can get this guy worked up” fun just about busts my circuit breaker every time.

With regard to her dubious texting skills, she is equally unapologetic. (Pick up on the theme here?) To her way of thinking, I know what she means. And on top of that, I guess I could always text her back for clarification. (We do have the technology.) But would that make for a funny post?

My wife has definite thoughts on my cheapness (simply embarrassing) and my penchant for purchasing anything at The Dollar Store (just don’t). She is also pretty quick to point out that I’m generally unwilling to admit I’ve made a mistake and if that eating dog food chili was going to be the thing that finally killed me, so be it.

FINAL THOUGHTS

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You may also recall that I used to be able to send these stories out unedited. Wow. Those were the days! But no longer. My wife now retains the right of first refusal. That’s fair. Fortunately, she doesn’t seem to take this job all that seriously so I still sneak in some content that maybe I shouldn’t.

Here goes…

THE ANNUAL MIGRATION OF WEALTH. It’s Christmas. Also known as the annual migration of wealth. Our boys are at the age where they basically just ask for cash. Christmas morning feels like the reading of a will. “And to my youngest, I bequeath $300, four $25 gift cards and all the change in the couch…”

DECORATIVE PILLOW LOGIC. I’ve been reading a lot about minimalism. Or, as my wife prefers to call it, devil worship. Dana is more of a maximalist. Good thing, I suppose. Otherwise, the decorative pillow industry might implode. Who else would buy this pillow from a store without finding that the slightest bit ironic?

GARISH DISPLAYS OF CHRISTMAS PRESENT. Are you one of those people who loves that It’s a Small World ride, but feels it is simply too subtle and understated? If so, you’d absolutely love our living room this Christmas. It looks like Elvis, the Ghost of Christmas Past and Liberace drained a bottle of Absinthe, then went on an Etsy bender. It is my wife’s Magnum Opus.

MY WIFE’S POV

My wife is the perfect capitalist. This is never more in full display than during the Holiday Season. Every year presents the opportunity to outdo the prior year. The more outrageous the better. Think of her as our family’s version of Mr. Beast. Unlimited ambition. Unlimited budget (not really but let’s just pretend).

Thankfully, I suppose, she directs this “Double Espresso” energy toward the interior of our house, not the exterior. I’m grateful. This saves me the embarrassment and cost of regularly burning out the neighborhood’s energy grid with an overstimulated Disneyesque display of Christmas lights.

No, her tools are simpler and more traditional. Gnomes. Nutcrackers. Nativity Scenes. Festive Candles. Snow Globes. Gingerbread Houses. Elves on Shelves. And of course, Decorative Pillows. Her unique talent is to mash these together so tightly in our living space that even a hoarder would say, “you might want to let that room breathe a bit more”. Let’s put it this way. She makes the house that Demi Moore bought to stash her 1,000 dolls appear understated and perfectly normal.

Now I understand that this rant might come off as if it is representing my POV, not my wife’s POV. Strangely, it represents both of our POV’s with complete accuracy. I guess it just depends how you look at things.

From my wife’s POV, her actions are nothing short of heroic. She creates the most memorable Christmas experiences living and breathing the philosophy that “more is better”. To be fair, there is no mistaking the Christmas season in our house.

FINAL THOUGHTS

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