IT'S 4AM, WHO DO YOU WANT TO ANSWER THE PHONE?

We get a phone call at 4:45AM from our office manager’s husband who is looking for her.  

According to my wife, waking up from the phone isn’t nearly as bad as laying awake for the rest of the morning wondering where she might be at a quarter to five in the morning.

Turns out, she was driving to Georgetown to deliver a wallet to her brother-in-law who needed it before he went to work, and had left the house about 4AM.

The 4:45AM call to us, was her husband thinking she had the work phone and wondering where she was.

My wife calls me at the office at 9AM. 

“Why did “Duke” call at 4:45?  Where was Trisa so early?”

I hesitate for a moment, “Well I can tell you and it will take about 10 minutes, or she can tell you and it will take 45 Minutes, which do you prefer?

“Just tell me,” she says.

Have I mentioned that I haven’t started sipping my coffee yet?

“OK, Duke’s brother left his wallet, and Trisa took it to him.”

My wife goes ballistic.   “WHY DID SHE GO?!!! IT’S NOT HER BROTHER!  AND WHY IS HE MAD?”

“Good question….”  I look across the office at Trisa and I’m about to ask, but then I hesitate and ask my wife,  “WAIT…..Why are you yelling at ME?”

“’UGH!   CAUSE YOU’RE.....CAUSE YOU’RE, UGH! SO STUPID,” she says, as if that answer is perfectly obvious.  “I HAVE TO GO,” she says and hangs up.

This is a perfect picture of marriage.  

If you’re somebody’s husband:  1. You’re never innocent   2. In most cases, you can easily be replaced by the family dog.

My brain, although sleep deprived and empty of caffeine, is still fully aware that I played absolutely no part in this drama.  Nevertheless, I quickly rewind the tape in my mind:

4:45AM – Telephone rings

I awake abruptly, scanning the room for intruders, looking for a heavy object, smelling for smoke and trying to adjust from deep sleep to wide awake.

 One of my cats is staring at me, probably thinking, “You’re lucky I’m down here at your feet.  If I was still up on that pillow, and you’d jumped like that, you’d be bleeding across your face right now.”

Wife has unintelligible conversation on the phone.  Walks into bathroom.  I fall back asleep.

4:50AM – Wife begins talking as if I am awake.  She announces, “Great, now I won’t sleep, wondering where in the world Trisa is at 4:45AM.”

I think, Great, now I won’t sleep wondering if she’s going to fall asleep or keep talking to me.

6AM – Wife’s alarm rings.   


She has told me that her exercise program is called INSANITY because it’s difficult.  I imagine it’s called “INSANITY” because it is my opinion that anyone who gets up at 6AM for an aerobic workout has mental issues that trump physical health needs.  I keep this thought to myself.  

Now the cat takes its place on her pillow, next to me.  My wife mumbles something as she’s getting dressed. I don’t catch a word of it, but I can swear the cat rolls its eyes incredulously.

9AM – Wife calls me at office. We have the conversation above ending with the declaration….“CAUSE YOU’RE SO STUPID.”

THE TAPE IN MY BRAIN STOPS

I’m drawing a blank.  

If you’re married more than 5 years however, this is actually comforting.     Better oblivious to your part in her anger, than actually knowing what you did wrong.   That’ll buy you a few more hours of ignorant bliss.

10AM – Wife texts from an industry networking meeting that history has taught me is often a complete waste of time filled with stupid ice-breaking games and embarrassing exercises aimed at sharing “feelings.”  It is usually populated by 50 females, 1 or 2 males (questionably), and led by a kook or two with assorted graduate level letters after their names.

WIFE VIA TEXT:  “Right now I’m folding paper into a flower… 

10:05AM  WIFE VIA TEXT:  "Now we’re listening to songs and guessing what they are…”

After the second message, I text back: “It’s a good thing YOU went.  I’d be too stupid to participate.”

She texts back.  “You’re finally catching on?”

I smile. Apparently after 16 years with me, my wife is developing an inkling of a sense of humor.  

Then again, she may be 100% serious.

IN SUMMARY:

Went to sleep.  Awoke by phone at 4:45AM. 

Took kids to school, went to work.

Answered call from wife.

I’ve got it now!  How stupid of me!

BULLSHIT FROM PORT ST LUCIE

If you're not my mother, Carl's early stage Alzheimers can be pretty funny. 


 Mom spends a good deal of time mailing back products and canceling services. She has returned from a UPS drop off location where she was shipping back an expensive BOSE radio, only to find a UPS truck in her driveway delivering another one. 


 She has called to cancel an order for slippers, only to find Carl standing in the doorway wearing another pair, and she now has a strong telephone friend relationship with the operators at QVC, who inform her confidentially, that 25% of their business is from Alzheimer's patients ordering stuff that will eventually be returned by family. She is convinced many segments are targeted to the dementia consumer. Think Teletubbies. 


 What's fascinating about Carl's illness is its specificity.


 While he is totally functional and exhibits few other signs of memory loss, he has nearly completely blocked out everything to do with their financial difficulties. They lost all of their retirement funds in the Bernie Madoff scandal, and while mom understands the severity of their situation, Carl carries on as if it didn't happen. 


 He'll stay up late pledging money he doesn't have to obscure causes, or order from catalogs as if they'd just won the lottery. When pressed about these things, he gets a bit confused, and sometimes but not often, belligerent. 


 When mom needed to get online to check a Visa statement to see how many pairs of the same men's cotton brief's he ordered, or see if he'd perhaps recently contributed to a fund for underprivileged chimpanzees in the Congo, she asked for his online password. 


 "Carl, what's the password to the Visa account?"


 "Why?" 


 "Carl! What's the password?!"


 "Why do you want the password? Stop canceling my orders." 


 "Carl, I'm not starting this with you. I need to check the balance. What is it?"


 "It's bullshit, Alyse. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!"


 "Carl. Trust me please. We don't have the money. Please don't make it difficult. I feel horrible already."


 "Alyse, I'm telling you it's bullshit!" 


 "Carl, we've been through this before. I will show you the bank statements. There's no more money. Just give me the password to the Visa account." 


 BullShit! BullShit! Bullshit! I'm telling you, it's bullshit, and I'm taking the dog out." 


 "Fine Carl, enjoy your walk." 


 She walks into his office, and looks through his Visa statement files, with mounting frustration, until she comes across the initial statement from the time the account was opened. 


 On top in handwritten letters carl has written: 


 Username: AOKCBK
 Password: BULLSHIT 


 Alzheimers or not, marriage is tough. 


 Sometimes it is bullshit.

IDIOT INSURANCE

It's not easy being married to a therapist.


ME: (Via text) "Hon, I'm at Home Depot. I was going to pick up some flowers, maybe an "angel-themed" birdbath, but let's do that together this weekend"


WIFE: (Via text) "ARE YOU A COMPLETE IDIOT?"


Note: No - you didn't miss anything between these two lines.


There's a life lesson here for men. Even if your intention is totally selfless, and you think you've figured out something that may actually make your spouse or significant other happy, forget it; you are a complete idiot.


Luckily I have a wife who can articulate why I'm an idiot. You may need to pay a professional.


Along with a license to listen to people for $100 an hour, (more often 45 minutes, not counting the 30 minutes in the waiting room listening to recorded sounds of birds tweeting and toilets flushing, set up for the previous patient's (victim's) privacy), a therapist has a DSM book of diagnosis.


This is a paperback book, the size of a small chevy truck, that provides a numerical code for every known, real and imagined mental disorder, for the expressed purpose of insurance reimbursement. (NO I did not just make that up).


It's other purpose, if you happen to be married to a therapist, is to allow your wife to take any recent statement that you've made, and provide for you, not an answer to the question, but the formal diagnosis as to why you asked.


Initially, my diagnosis was "Complete Idiot." A disorder that falls somewhere between Attention Deficit Disorder and Zunich-Kaye syndrome, which is a polite term for Mental Retardation, and useful here because it begins with a "Z."


If you're lost as to why the quick diagnosis as Complete Idiot, from the single request to share some time at Home Depot, it's because you didn't spend twelve years earning a Masters in Counseling, and you probably don't own a DSM book.


Actually it's a DSM III or maybe by now a DSM IV book. Each time they come up with new excuses why people act like morons, they have to give it a name for insurance reimbursement, so the books get larger. They were going to put it on a Kindle, but despite the fact that we can now get the entire library of congress onto a micro-chip the size of a neutrino, the DSM books don't fit.


Stupidly, I chose to respond to the text with some truly heartfelt reasoning as to why making the front of our office building look nice makes me feel like I've accomplished something. Our daily routine often feels like we're on a hamster wheel, running fast, but getting nowhere. If I can personalize my office space, I have some tiny physical evidence of something changing for the better, and I enjoy a small creative outlet.


ME: Something to the effect of what I just explained above.


WIFE: "OMG! You can rationalize anything to yourself. We don't have the money to pay bonuses to our employees, or to pay back our start-up loans, but let's get a bird bath."


OK. In the interest of fairness in humor, she scores big there.


Plus, I suppose I should have read the financial concern into her question, "Are you a complete idiot?" What, did you miss that too?


A few minutes go by, while I'm walking the aisles at Home Depot considering how stupid I was to even think of texting my wife in the first place, and I get another phone buzz. I'm afraid to look; how many times can I have my balls snipped in one hour? Especially since I willingly exposed them to the chopping block?


WIFE: HONEY! I'm not mad. I just realized why you're doing this. I'll tell you later."


This of course means that she has pulled out her DSM IV, or perhaps by now DSM X book, and cross-referenced God knows what, to determine the reason I would like to plant flowers outside my office, and yes, perhaps place a small fountain or bird-bath. She is convinced apparently that this is some sort of disorder. If she can just find the code; 1. I am absolved of all guilt, 2. This may be reimbursable by medical insurance.


I too have been married 16 years, so I know what my wife is thinking, and it doesn't take a 1200 page book of gibberish to get it.


ME: "I'm in the manic phase of a bi-polar episode."


WIFE: "Yes! And I want you to enjoy it. Just don't spend any money."


Now, did you catch what happened here?


She was angry, until she found an excuse for my behavior. Then she felt bad for me, because there's a re-imburseable excuse for me.


Unfortunately we're not covered. My idiocy and bi-polar diagnosis are both pre-existing conditions.


I think they both contributed to why I got married.

SEX. WHO PAYS?

Am I the only one that suspects the Georgetown chick is probably a lesbian? Definitely could be playing collegiate field hockey.

Last I heard, they can't get each other pregnant?

Isn't that true, or has there been some sort of breakthrough?



Now - Let's do the math:

She says: Sex is costing $3,000 annually?!

Birth Control pills: $15 per month

This means a woman would have to be swallowing nearly 17X the amount of pills prescribed.

No wonder she looks like a man.

OR

A condom is $1 (Actually, probably less, but lets assume she's only letting luxury penises in).

If sex is costing her $3,000 per year, she's having sex 8.219191780 times every day, all year!

What does that make her? (Exactly the question Rush asked).

Either a 'slut' or a 'prostitute."

Let's hope prostitute because we should hope she's getting paid to do it 8 times a day.

Oh wait, that's pretty much what she wants us to do; pay for her sex.

No thanks.