IDEA WIFE
For the past 25 years, my wife has been crucial to my success as a humorist. She’s complained about my napping, sense of direction, and messiness. She’s told me how scatterbrained I am. She has been the well I went to when I needed material for my weekly feature. I don’t know what I’d do without her.
Lately, however, I have started to lose a little confidence in her ability to irritate me. We may need to talk to somebody professionally. She’s not hitting the right buttons.
Last weekend, she was about to select a movie from Netflix that we could watch together, a Sunday night tradition. I knew this was potential grist for the humor mill. “She’s going to pick out a chick flick,” I thought. “What a great story that will make: a husband forced to watch an old movie that no self-respecting man could possibly enjoy.” The column was half-written in my head when she grabbed the TV remote.
“How about this one, Pulp Fiction. That sounds like a good one.”
“No, Mary Ellen, that’s a horrible selection! You hate violence. How about a movie that’s all character development, exquisite cinematography and no bad language. Something that will bore me to death.”
“No, let’s do Pulp Fiction. I want to make you happy.”
“No. I don’t want to be happy. I want you to make me miserable, force me to sit through something unbearable.”
The next night, things got worse. We decided to grab a bite to eat. My wife always wants to go to some place a little bit fancy. I always make a case for fast food. Then Mary Ellen calls me cheap, a skinflint. Great humorous essays are made from this common marital conflict. It’s foolproof.
“Okay, Dick. How about Steak ’n Shake? I’m really in the mood for a greasy burger.”
“No, you’re not in the mood for a burger. You’re just dying for grilled salmon or scallops, like at a fancy seafood place. Come on! Work with me! Call me a tightwad. I can’t get a column out of you eating a hamburger.
“Nah, a burger sounds good. But first, I need to stop by Designer Shoe Warehouse and look for a new pair of sandals for the summer.”
Saved! This would take her at least two hours. I would wait in the car where I could fill out my entire 2024 tax extension, and I could get a good start on War and Peace. But ten minutes later…
“Hi, Dick, I’m back. Do you like these shoes?”
“No, I hate them. Go back inside. You’ve been gone only ten minutes.”
“I saw exactly what I wanted as soon as I walked into the store.”
“No, no! You have to try on dozens of shoes. And not be happy with any of them. Then you’ll come out to the car an hour later and say we must return tomorrow night.”
“You know, Dick. I’m on to you. You want me to behave in a certain way so you’ll have a topic for a column about our marriage. Without me, you’re an empty shell, a man devoid of original ideas, a writer without a muse.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you. I was afraid I was never going to make that deadline.”