Frazzle Meters, The Dollar Store and Texting With Your Eyes Closed

Since my Substack is pretty much new, I first want to remind you that the ENTIRE premise of my Substack is that I’m literally just sharing short stories about my family that I’ve previously published in one of my annual Christmas letters.

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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