Tripping My Wife's Trigger

There are many things I do or say that bugs my wife. Off the top of my head, she loathes when I say "Yessireebobcattail!" I'm not sure why; I don't even think she understands. But hate it, she does.

But the absolute worst offender? Read on...

Years ago, my family was out at a restaurant celebrating someone's birthday. When they brought out our salads, my brother and I oohed and ahhed over how great the blue cheese dressing was. 

 "Man," I said, "I could drink a gallon of this."

"Same," replied my brother. "What about good gravy? Could you drink a gallon of that? I sure could."

"Oh yeah," I agreed. Then in a sudden inspirational burst, I added, "That's because we have the exact same genetic chemical makeup."

Okay, besides the ridiculous redundancy of the sentence ("exact same" kinda bugs me, too), I understand the impossibility of having the same genetic chemical makeup as someone else, even family. But when I saw how it bugged the scientific mindset of my wife, I wouldn't let up. First, she responded with eyerolls. Later she said how stupid it was.

Of course, my brother and I rolled with it, sometimes perfecting it to the point where we recited it in unison.

My daughter took up the cause, as well. She and I really perfected the routine, in perfect sync every time. She even added on to it with "Oh my GODDDD!" Which worked out extraordinarily well.

"You know why we both love dogs?" I'd ask.

Together, my daughter and I: "Because we have the exact same genetic chemical makeup, oh my GODDDDDD!"

My wife went back to eyerolling, knowing full well we weren't going to stop the insanity. Soon enough, we even enlisted my daughter's boyfriend's son in the game.

Go on, try it on your loved ones. It's fun! (NOTICE: I'm not responsible for any resulting fighting or marital problems.)

Speaking of games, there's plenty of cat 'n mouse games going on between a couple of serial killers and the evil corporation who's using them like pawns. Heads are chopped, dropped, and swapped in my darkly comical suspense thriller trilogy, Killers Incorporated, available here.

The Royalty of Weird

The other day I asked my wife if she could do my laundry. (Now before all the feminists get in an uproar, my wife kindly volunteered to take this task over from me because my knees went the way of disco and she doesn't want me crashing down the basement stairs.)

I said, "Thanks, honey. Could you start with my unspeakables?"

"Okay," she replied, "but it's 'unmentionables,' not 'unspeakables'."

"Have you seen my underwear?"

Pause. Blink. Finally, she hit me back with her most often used retort. "You're weird."

To which I responded, "Yeah? Well, you married weird."

BOOM! Mic drop. Even she had no witty comeback for that one.

Now. Let's get something straight. There's nothing wrong with being weird. I pride myself on being weird. It's far, far, far better than being "normal" or even worse, boring.

And it's worked out well for many people. There's Weird Al...and...um...Gary Busey...ah...Donny Trump?

Okay, so I can't use celebrities as a shining example of the success of being weird.

My wife won't admit it, but I think she's good with weird, too.

We're the royal King and Queen of Weird, our kingdom is Weirdopia. And I love my weird queen.

Speaking of all things weird, here's a strange little weird book of mine: Chili Run. It's kinda a lark, a comedic crime thriller based on a dream I had about being forced to run through downtown Kansas City in my tighty whities (or is it "tidy whities"? That's one controversy I've never resolved.). It's complicated. The hijinks ensue right here!

When Angels Die...

My wife and I were enjoying a sparring match of words and wits. So what else is new?

"Every time you get in a mood to do outside work, you never leave me a clear path in the garage to get the trash/recycling bins out," I said. (Side note: I don't think we've had a car in the garage since we were married. It's a place to store junk when there's no more room in the house or basement. Or Hell.)

"Well..." she rebounded, "...every time you help me with a project, I have to clean up after you."

"That's simply not true," I objected.

"Ha! Oh yes it is!"

"No, it's not," I calmly stated. "Because I don't help much with your projects any more. My back and knees, you know." (My go-to "get-out-of-jail-free" card.)

"And every time you cook," she continued, "I spend an inordinate amount of time cleaning up the mess after you," she fearlessly lobbed back at me.

"Yeah? Well, every time you go shopping, our living room looks like an Amazon warehouse," I countered.

"Fine," she said, "but every time you open stuff, you leave your trash laying on the counter or a table."

Hmmm. I have to admit, she had me there. But I ain't nothin' if not an underdog and who doesn't love a come-back? I thought long and hard and came up with this non-sequitur gem of Trumpian proportions: "Well...every time you kvetch at me, an angel dies!"

Case closed, another win!

Speaking of total nonsense, check out my comic thriller, Chili Run. Beyond the rather *ahem* disturbing title, it's based on a dream I had where I was forced by bad guys to run across downtown Kansas City to retrieve a bowl of chili. Naturally, in nothing but my tighty-whities, a recurring nightmare that  a lot of guys are familiar with. You can find Chili Run here, the perfect thriller for the reader on the go.

Murder's On the Table!

My wife and I find ourselves embroiled in some very bizarre conversations. Take the following, for example. (And neither one of us can remember how exactly we came to this conclusion, but we just know that we did.)

"You know, divorce is not an option for us," I said one day out of the blue. "I would never divorce you."

"Hmmm," said wife. "I concur. However, murder could be a viable option."

"I wholeheartedly agree," I said while raising a very professorial finger and not even truly contemplating the underlying horror, oh, the horror of it all.

Now, of course we're joking. And I have to remember who I can tell this to and who I can't. For instance, caught up in the moment of our last anniversary celebration, we let this bombshell rip to our unsuspecting, befuddled and horrified wine-tasting hostess.

"We decided last week," said my wife, "that divorce isn't an option for us. Ever. However, murder's on the table."

Figuring I could smooth things over a bit, I added, "Yes. For all of the TV cop shows proclaim that murder is a crime of passion. Hence, it goes to figure that since we passionately love one another, murder would be the only logical outcome were things to get intensely wrong between us."

Naturally, I just made things worse. The hostess' jaw dropped and so did the glass she was polishing.

A little later, over my daughter's birthday dinner, we shared the same jovial news  as other eavesdropping diners and waitresses undoubtedly had their phones out and ready to call 911.

We do need to watch who we share this with. The Big House is not a viable option for us (although murder still is). 

While I'm on the topic of how funny murder is (hardy-har-har-har!), there are lots of larf-out-loud hijinx and antics surrounding murrrrrrder in my Zach and Zora comical mystery series. Start at the beginning with Bad Day in a Banana Hammock and you'll see just how high-larious murder can be!

Marry Within Your Thermometer Range

For those about to marry, pay heed. Most folks will tell you to go to counseling, seek religious guidance, look at the astrological charts, bla, bla, bla.

None of that matters more than recognizing your future partner's thermostat level and deciding if you can live comfortably within said range. It's that easy.

Once you have the temperature set, you lovebirds are on an amazingly compatibly temperate adventure!

My lovely wife and I lucked out. We're among the 1% (not the rich 1%) who, together, get cold easily. We have no problem coexisting peacefully in warmth.

Unlike my last job where thermostat wars ensued between an evil, menopausal, cocaine-addicted woman and myself. She'd crank the thermostat down to 63 degrees. In Winter. We'd yell through the thin wall...

"G@dd@mmit, I'm cooking in here," she'd scream. "I'm hawt, you stupid, jack-ass son-of-a-bi%#h!"

"Shut up, you crazy biker," I would lob back, very maturely. "Take off your leather jacket!"

Well. The dial went up and down. So did the name-calling. It wasn't pretty. Nor was I proud of my behavior. But when confronted with the prospect of frostbite, I resort to bestial behavior, the call of the wild.

I think my ex-co-worker did eventually die from frostbite.

On the bright side of life, my wife and I are cozy doing 73 degrees in the Summer and even higher in the Winter. Together, we bask in the heat. (Okay, sometimes I sweat, but she positively glistens.)

Let this be a (global) warning: Be aware of your potential partner's thermal tolerance.

There's a whole lotta freezing going on in my novel, Dread and Breakfast. Taking place during one of the worst winter storms in the Midwest's history, that's the least of all the guest's worries!