I do not expect most folks turn to this column for what is referred to as “hard news.” I try to go out of my way to avoid telling readers how they should live their lives. So, one can imagine how important it is for regional safety and stability for me to state clearly the following public service announcement. Friends, if any of you see my sainted wife near the end of the week please remember to not make eye contact, make no sudden movements, back away slowly and, whatever you do, do not wish her “Happy Birthday.” I consider this to be a blanket notice warning and am now absolved of any and all liability for anything other than strict adherence to these instructions (some of which I admit I took from a pamphlet on how to avoid bear attacks which, to be honest, is a pretty close comp to my conversations with my better half the last couple of days). She is turning 43 this week. She is apparently handling that fact by throwing random fits of cursing and threatening me with a defamation lawsuit for printing her age in the newspaper. But, of course, since I need a column topic this week and truth being an absolute defense to defamation, we shall soldier on. Don’t forget your bear spray.
My sainted wife’s aversion to turning 43 is rooted - as I expect all of America’s problems for the next 75 or so years will be - in the Covid-19 pandemic. We all know 40 is usually the birthday where emotional breakdowns commonly occur. Unfortunately, she turned 40 in the first month of the pandemic. You remember the first month of the pandemic, right? That’s when we were all pretty sure the world was heading somewhere into the weirder sections of Revelations. Like, we were possibly in a plague that got edited out at the Council of Nicea: “And the pestilence will be spread among them while they cower in their homes and stream Tiger King on Netflix.” So, basically my bride wasn’t able to freak out about her 40th birthday because she was too busy freaking out about THE END OF THE WORLD. And since then we’ve had a Presidential election, the Braves won the World Series and Twitter was bought by a guy who somehow became the world’s richest man selling fewer cars than Buick. The freak out really never had a chance to stop until now when she’s stopped screaming long enough to realize she missed three years of precious post-40 life screaming. So, when I asked her what she wanted for her birthday, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when her response was less “wishlist-y” and more “screaming at confused husband-y”.
If there is anything I love about my sainted wife, it’s her practicality. With that in mind, as the big day nears, my beloved has been flip-flopping between two present choices: new gutters for the house or liposuction. I love my wife. I want her to be happy. If better-quality rain diversion will warm her heart, I will make it happen. Nothing gets me hotter than soil erosion prevention. However, when my dearest puts the question to me, “Honey, do you think I should get new gutters or lipo?” She must have lost her dang mind if she thinks I’m going to somehow endorse the idea out loud that she - or any woman in her family for that matter - needs fat reduction surgery. Like the old beaver that the farmer can’t get out of his pond, I know a trap when I see one.
I think I’m going to spend the next few hours dropping subtle hints about house foundations being ruined by inferior drainage. After all, it is like the bear pamphlet said, the easiest way to avoid an attack is don’t poke the bear.