Learning to Speak in “Air Quotes”. I love using air quotes. For instance, My wife knows I can’t do lunch with my in-laws without my “medicine”. (Jack Daniels and a horse tranquilizer.) Now she wants to use air quotes too. She just doesn’t know where to put them. For instance, after getting this lousy birthday present from me, she told her friends, Check out this amazing present my “husband” bought me. The quotes belong around amazing, but she puts them around husband. Sadly, it still works. Damn beginner’s luck.

Boys Who Eat Like Blind-Folded Monkeys. My boys are slobs. In fact, my youngest eats like he’s not entirely sure where to put food. I think he would actually get less messy if a blind-folded monkey just threw food at his face. For the record, I do distinctly remember requesting that my wife give birth to girls, not boys. So, I feel like this is mostly her fault.

Questionable Fashion Sense. I was born with zero fashion sense. For instance, sometimes I’ll head out the door in cargo pants. Or a shirt gifted to me at the county fair by the local pest control company. Assuming she catches me, my wife will cringe. “Aren’t you embarrassed for yourself?” My response? “I suppose I’m slightly embarrassed. But actually, I’m more embarrassed for you. Because people are going to think that you dressed me like this”. If you’re a guy, this seems like a very clever response. I checked around. Apparently, it is not.

MY FAMILY’S POV

I think I’ve previously mentioned that because my boys can’t imagine that anyone they know still reads for pleasure, they don’t generally have a problem writing about them. However, they did make it clear that they don’t want me posting actual pictures of them. As such, the picture above is merely a representation. An amazingly accurate one. But a representation.

With regard to my wife, there’s really nothing for her to complain about in these stories. The air quotes story actually makes her look like some kind of savant. And calling out my bad fashion sense is actually a public service, the way she sees it.

Again, my wife is more into pictures than words. So, while the comic-book style representations above are obviously not her, she has insisted that she review each one to make sure they’re sufficiently attractive. My wife has a very pronounced “vanity” muscle.

FINAL THOUGHTS

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The Waiting Line to Worry Just Got Shorter. I’ve already established that my wife is a worrier. But since straight-up worrying doesn’t seem to satisfy her emotionally, she has established a whole new class of worrying. It’s something I call pre-worry. See, when you’re worried, it pertains to things that actually could happen. My husband went skydiving and I’m worried he might forget to open his chute. By contrast, pre-worry involves things that haven’t even happened yet. And are unlikely to ever happen. My husband, who has never previously displayed any interest in skydiving, might inexplicably develop an interest and then forget to open his chute. I’m increasingly growing pre-worried that my wife might end up in a mental institution.

Bad Investments in Your Children. My son bought an underwater camera. The picture on the left is the complete return on investment of the purchase of not one, but two of these (since the first one got lost). I think it is safe to say that you shouldn’t have my son manage your stock portfolio.

Chore Fails. Household chores suck. You know what sucks even worse? Having someone who thinks their chore is to be the boss of your chore. Filling the dishwasher is my chore. (To be fair, I failed at so many other chores that it was kind of the last chore left.) Having said that, I feel like I’ve become pretty good at it. Apparently not. My wife routinely opens up the dishwasher. And asks, “Can you tell me what’s wrong with this picture?” Occasionally I’ll say something that feels really smart in the moment like, “The fact that someone filling a dishwasher requires a supervisor?” Which literally never works out in my favor. Man, those hunter gatherers didn’t know how good they had it.

MY FAMILY’S POV

Firstly, my wife loves it when I put myself down instead of her. So, obviously, the dishwasher thing (and my failure at indoor chores in general) is a huge hit with her. Other chores at which I’m grossly deficient include:

- Replacing the decorative pillows on the couch (to be fair, decorative pillows are stupid)

- Folding the laundry (I find it easier to toss it into a pile and fish out what I’d like to wear0

- Peeing and missing the toilet (to be fair, this isn’t really a chore, but she asked me to include it so that people know what she’s up against)

In my defense, I am reasonably capable of outdoor chores. Especially watering. I realize that watering barely counts as a chore. It is about as challenging as fishing. (Which reminds me of a funny Steven Wright line – there’s a fine line between fishing and just standing on the shore looking like an idiot.) Like fishing, it is mostly an excuse to consume beer. Listen, when you don’t have that much going for you, you’ve got to take your wins where you can find them.

My wife also liked my pre-worry story. Mostly because she isn’t really a reader. Or into any kind of detail. So, she didn’t actually read the whole story. (Let’s put it this way. She’s not the person you’d want doing your taxes.) She mostly just thought the picture was funny. As was the idea of me falling out of the plane for picking on her. Which wasn’t really the point of the story. Except to her.

I asked my son to give me a POV on the story I included about him. He said he would do so only if I paid him to do so. (That’s the kind of relationship we’ve got going now that he is older.) I mentioned that maybe he’d find the story embarrassing. He told me that nobody he knows actually reads things for pleasure anyway. But if I put it on TikTok, that might be another story. Good to know. I might need leverage over this kid some day.

FINAL THOUGHTS

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Welcome to my latest publication of Domestic Chaos Theory…

I don’t want to sound too dramatic, but I had a rather severe snowmobile accident on a recent boys’ trip to Idaho.

The good news is that I made it home safely and after 3 months I am now pretty much recovered.

The bad news is that my wife wasn’t there and therefore only shares bits and pieces (or general inaccuracies) about my story.

Here’s what happened.

My friend has a great place in McCall Idaho and often invites us to visit. We flew up to Boise early on 1.29, intending to stay 3 days returning late 2.2.

First day was skiing. Second day was snowmobiling. Third day was cow tipping or something like that. It doesn’t matter because I didn’t make it that far.

Our snowmobiling day was a ton of fun. Gorgeous bluebird day. There were six of us total. We picked up our machines around 1PM and took off on a 70-mile roundtrip ride along a snow-covered road that led to some very small (e.g., 10 person) villages. We ate lunch at one and then had literally one beer at the end of the trail at a place called The Baum Shelter. It was a dump but fun.

It was around 330 and since we had to book 30+ miles to return the sleds at 5, we got going. We drove in a procession, and I was fifth out of six. Everything was going fine and then it happened pretty fast. We were taking a right turn which I guess I cut too close because I caught an edge. I’d been leaning into the curve heavily so apparently flew off the sled right into a tree.

I don’t really remember what happened thereafter for a bit, but that never seems to stop my wife from pretending she’s an expert so I’m also just going to say things like I saw them. Basically, I was in a snow ditch. At first, I was goofy (once again like my wife) but then I cleared up a bit. For the record, my helmet got knocked off and had to be totaled. My friend who invited us on the trip was the one behind me and did all the talking. I wasn’t in major pain at that moment, probably because I was in shock.

The weird part was that I could tell my hand wasn’t where it should be. I could see it and I could move my fingers, but it was in a weird spot. So, I knew I’d broken my right arm. (At least it wasn’t a compound fracture. That would have been bad.)

There was a lot of activity going on around me. Fortunately, all my friends on the trip are super capable, smart guys. The type you’d hope to have around in case of emergency. One of them managed to get though on the emergency 911 system (done via text). Because we were way out there, help was going to be a long time coming.

In the meantime, it was starting to get dark and cold. I actually never felt cold personally due to the shock, but it was cold. Fortunately, someone secured some metallic blankets and firewood. As I recall, they kind of built a fire on top of me. Which was nice.

While I was in the ditch my friend sat by me with updates and encouragement. He likes to talk (and is good at it) so this was a great role for him. Plus, he is very comforting. He’s also kind of a bullshitter, so I wasn’t always able to separate truth from fiction. No matter. He did an amazing job.

Anyway, after about an hour in the ditch he tells me they’re going to try to get a helicopter to me. That was very welcome news. Because the alternative would have been on a snowmobile, which would have been tough because apparently, I also had 10 broken ribs. More on that later.

The trick would be to land the helicopter on the path, since things were tight in there. It took several tries but eventually this magician of a pilot pulled it off.

So, the first responders got to me in the ditch when they landed. The first effort of business was to give me painkillers, but because I had been sitting in the equivalent of a meat locker for 1:30, they couldn’t open a vein. They did throw some fentanyl on a huge qtip in the interim and stuck that in my nose, which helped a bit.

Not that much though. Because when they put a blanket under me and six of them lifted me out (I’ve put on a touch of weight) I gave out a respectable scream of pain. (I’ve been rewatching Band of Brothers lately which served as good training.) They then dropped me under the copter just like they do on MASH. That was cool.

Then we took off. They said it was a 45-minute ride to the hospital. There were two of them in there with me (it was a cramped space) and they literally spent the entire time trying to create a pick line for the meds. My broken right arm was obviously off limits, and they’d pretty much already beaten my left arm to shit with punctures, so they started on my neck. The entire flight consisted of them crawling on me (remember the broken ribs) trying to establish a pick line until they finally achieved success 10 minutes before we landed.

The next part was kind of cool. Just imagine an episode of ER from the POV of the patient coming in, camera facing up to the sky/ceiling. It was like a surreal roller coaster. These guys moved fast and soon I was in the ER with a team of like five people.

The first thing they asked is if it was OK to cut off my ski jacket. I said yes, gladly. I didn’t have time to tell them the entire story, but the ski jacket was a Christmas present from my wife. Basically, my youngest son needed a ski jacket, and she wanted to give him mine, so she bought me the EXACT same one and pitched it to me as a present. (One time my wife wanted to go see Phantom of the Opera so bought ME tickets to see it as a present. Not always a great gift giver.) Anyway, since my youngest son doesn’t really ski anymore, I can now just go back to wearing the blue version of the red jacket they were slicing to shreds.

They also cut off my ski shirts and long underwear but thankfully saved my cool ski pants. Then it was time to get to work. The big task was to maneuver my arm into something that once again resembled the normal shape of an arm. They told me they were going to give me ketamine as a painkiller. It was a weird experience, to say the least. First, I’m staring at a small sticker of a minion above the ER bay. Then, your mind begins to move and hallucinate. I held onto reality for a second, remembering my entire backstory. Then my mind went to a test pattern without any context of anything but a gentle buzzing feeling. It wasn’t bad but it also didn’t feel like there was a way out of it. I kind of assumed I died and that this was it. Then, all of a sudden, I popped out of it into total consciousness. My arm had been repositioned, and I had no memory of it. They told me the screaming was pretty good though.

I’ll continue to tell the rest of my story, although that’s really all the drama. They kept me in the ICU for the next several days. Honestly, the drugs there are damn good. And they needed to be because I required two operations. The first was to fix my arm, which was a 100% clean break that required a titanium rod and screws. Apparently, they flipped me on my stomach for this one. Thank God once again for Ketamine.

The next operation was the big one. You don’t technically need to operate to fix broken ribs (as I know from the last time I broke them) but recovery is long and painful if you don’t. Every cough feels like breaking another rib. Thankfully I was in a very cutting-edge hospital where they treat a lot of ski and mountain bike injuries like mine. Because my ten ribs were broken on both sides, they recommended using titanium and screws on all of them to secure the cage and speed my recovery. The surgery was a miracle success. On a positive note, I now also own a portion of a titanium mine.

After that they moved me from the ICU. I was released after spending 10 total nights in the hospital. On the positive side, the people there were fantastic. I have only good things to say about those Idaho types. On the negative side, I had to learn to wipe myself with my non dominant hand. (Try it, cocky people.) And I kind of never slept since I was constantly poked and prodded (the 4AM daily x-rays were my least personal favorite).

The flight back home was direct. I booked a first-class ticket, which for those of you who know how I don’t like to spend money actually maybe hurt me more than the arm. (Not the ribs though. They hurt.) They put me on the flight along with the other wheelchair bound old lady cripples. Everything was fine until about 15 minutes into the flight when I started to shake (like I was cold, but I wasn’t) for the next 1:15. Eventually I just passed out. They put me in an old lady wheelchair, helped me grab my checked bag and then my wife met me at the curb for an uneventful ride home.

That’s it. Since everyone asks, the snowmobile was pretty much fine. It went sailing into the woods and turned upside down but avoided severe damage. Thank goodness for small mercies.

To be honest, if Hell really did freeze over it would probably make for great snowmobiling.

FINAL THOUGHTS

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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

If you enjoyed this post, please share it with someone who might be interested. I’d really appreciate it.

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Thanks!

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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