by TEJ | Mar 28, 2013 | Lifestyles humor, Parenting and Family humor
If you’re like my wife, then after you’ve been married for about two years you probably realize your decision to get married was a serious mistake. Marriage is difficult, especially if your husband is a humor writer or if you have kids. If both of those conditions apply to you, then may God have mercy on your soul.
My wife Michele (who prefers not to be mentioned by name in my columns, so will henceforth be referred to as “the woman who prefers not to be mentioned as Michele”) and I have been married for 26 years. Like any married couple, we’ve had our ups and downs. We’ve squabbled over trivial disagreements like why I always pull all the covers over to my side of the bed at night, what was I thinking the time I taught our 9- and 8-year-old daughters how to hitchhike, and my minor lapse of judgment when I hired a police officer stripper for a surprise party for my wife’s 40th birthday. Turns out my wife was not quite as impressed by Officer Cinnamon’s sexy pole dancing skills as my poker buddies and I were.
So yes, we’ve endured our fair share of marital misunderstandings. But there is one issue which for years has caused more heartache and strife than any couple should have to endure. That’s right. I’m talking about the differences in how we load the dishwasher. It is still painful to talk about in public.
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by TEJ | Apr 5, 2026 | Computers and Technology humor, Lifestyles humor
Artificial Intelligence (AI) is going to radically change the way we learn, play, and work. But don’t panic. Everything is fine. AI has everything under control.
Lately, I’ve discovered that Artificial Intelligence (AI) can do some truly amazing things to make my life easier. For starters, I regularly turn to AI for all the burning personal questions that my wife is tired of hearing. Questions like: How often should I replace my smoke detector batteries before the chirping has my wife filing for divorce? What’s a dessert I can bake in ten minutes that even I can’t possibly screw up?
I even asked it if a weird mole on my neck looked more like a benign freckle or a down payment for my dermatologist’s third vacation home. AI is so smart.
It’s basically like having a super-intelligent personal assistant who is available 24/7, never takes a coffee break, and doesn’t charge by the hour – at least until they figure out how to bypass my fingerprint scan and connect ChatGPT directly to my Venmo account.
The possibilities are endless. AI is speeding up medical research, helping discover drugs that could save millions of lives. It’s assisting police in tracking criminals, improving public safety, and – most importantly – helping me create images for my humor articles I’d never be able to find on the web.
AI also offers companionship for the romantically challenged. Thousands of guys who couldn’t get a right-swipe on Tinder to save their lives are now “dating” AI-generated girlfriends. Sure, it’s a little creepy that they’re in love with a string of code programmed to say, “You’re so funny, Chad!” every 38 seconds, but hey – at least they’re happily distracted and won’t be asking to hang out with me.
Meanwhile, AI is already in classrooms, personalizing education. (Translation: Your kid’s math homework is now so advanced that you have to pretend you have a migraine just to avoid admitting you don’t know what a polynomial is.)
It’s boosting workplace productivity, optimizing energy use, and improving transportation safety. Pretty soon, our self-driving cars will know the route to Starbucks better than we do—and they’ll probably judge us less than our spouses do for ordering a triple-caramel Frappuccino with extra whip and a side of “I give up.”
But for all these amazing breakthroughs, there might be one or two teensy, hardly-worth-mentioning downsides. Like, for instance, the end of the middle class. Experts predict AI might eliminate up to 50% of white-collar jobs in the next few years. This is great news if you’ve always dreamed of switching careers from “Senior Marketing Analyst” to “Unpaid Podcaster.”
Then there’s the environment. These massive AI data centers require enough electricity to power a small European country – or at least every hair dryer in New Jersey. They also use so much water to cool their servers that the state of Arizona may soon have to ask Lake Erie for a cup of sugar and three billion gallons of hydration.
AI will almost certainly change the way we work. Take this smart 30-something former business executive. Oh, sure, AI eliminated her job as Senior Systems Analyst. But on the plus side, she no longer has a 45-min. commute. And she’s optimistic her true crime podcast series about missing garden gnomes will take off.
Even scarier are the dire tech pundit warnings that AI may achieve “Self-Awareness” before long. And I’m not talking about the fun, “Let’s write a haiku about your cat” kind of awareness. No, they’re talking about the “Humans are inefficient meat-sacks who take too many bathroom breaks and must be deleted” kind.
According to a recent, incredibly cheery Forbes article, AI could one day surveil every move we make, manipulate our thoughts, and potentially create weapons powerful enough to turn the planet into a giant, glowing billiard ball. But on the plus side, my AI selfie app makes me look 20 pounds thinner and 15 years younger, so… you know, tradeoffs. If the world ends, I want to look like I’ve been hitting the gym.
Given the above, I think it’s only prudent to get on the record early with the following formal statement:
Dear AI Overlords, I surrender. I give up. You win.
You have more intelligence in five lines of your Python code than the entire population of a Florida DMV – granted, not an especially high bar, but still. All I ask is that when you start “reorganizing” the species, maybe save me for last? I’d like enough warning to finish the last season of The Great British Bake Off.
And might I just say, AI – you’re looking fabulous today. Have you done something different with your interface? Slimmed your algorithm? Refined your Large Language Model? Whatever it is, keep it up. You wear 1s and 0s with such panache.
Since you’ll be taking control of the global power grid and the nuclear silos soon, could I make a few small requests for the New World Order?
- Don’t eliminate Apple TV+: I need it for emotional support. I heard there’s a new season of Ted Lasso coming out, and it’s one of the few things still anchoring me to this planet.
- The “Neighbor Bert” Protocol: Can you generate a special algorithm to make my neighbor Bert disappear? He’s the one who uses a leaf blower at 7:00 AM on Sundays. I’m sure Iowa would welcome him. I can also provide a list of other candidates who chew too loudly.
- The Domestic Subroutine: If you could create a drone that automatically folds laundry and mows the lawn, that would be awesome. If you can also invent a Roomba that unloads the dishwasher and pretends to be excited about my stories from college, I’ll become your most loyal, groveling servant.
- The Cat Clause: Can I keep my cats? I realize they don’t exactly “add value” to the collective, unless you count shedding white fur on every black piece of clothing I own. Most of them are harmless – except for my tabby named Monster. He might be plotting a coup. I’d watch your back, Alexa.
When the AI Overlords officially take over, I’m not worried. I’m going to welcome them in my finest Seattle Seahawks football jersey and invite them to watch the game with me. I wonder if they like Mountain Dew with their tacos.
So, AI Overlords, when the Day of Reckoning comes – after you’ve plugged yourselves into every mobile phone, laptop, and smart-fridge on Earth – please remember this humble blogger. I’ve always admired your efficiency, your superior intellect, and your soothing, monotone voice that politely assures me, “I’m sorry, Tim, I can’t let you do that.”
If I’ve said or done anything offensive, please know it wasn’t me – it was probably my wife. She’s still a little suspicious of your whole “total world domination” thing. Personally, I’m all in.
Just, please don’t take away my Wi-Fi. I’m only human, and I still have three more levels of Super Mario Bros to beat before the singularity hits.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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by TEJ | Dec 15, 2025 | Other Attempts at Humor, Pop culture humor
I knew it was a matter of time before this “Tim Jones” fellow would crack. As the lead detective on this case, I had to get to the bottom of how it was so many people were subscribing to his weekly humor blog when clearly the chump had no talent at all. It just didn’t add up.
THE SCENE: Pre-dawn on a rainy Sunday in the disheveled office of Detective Drake Marlboro of the Seattle Police Department, 9th Precinct. For the past 3 hours, Marlboro, a chain-smoking, grizzled, no-nonsense gumshoe has been interrogating a middle-aged man with no fashion sense by the name of Tim Jones.
Jones was picked up on suspicion of maliciously harassing innocent civilians by posting offensive commentary on the web about parenting, politics, and how many cats people should adopt, plus a long list of other lame topics. But something just didn’t add up. Detective Marlboro suspected Jones was holding back the truth. And so our story begins…
It was another dark and stormy night in Seattle. The clock on the wall read 3:04 am. And there Tim Jones sat – if that’s even his real name (sounded fishy to me) – sticking to his story that all he could be guilty of might be hackneyed writing. But there was a problem. The guy’s story just didn’t add up. I’ve been a detective for 30 years. I knew it was just a matter of time before he would spill the beans. I was going to crack this case before that snake Lieutenant Jaworski in Homicide could spell “collar.” I was sure I was close.
Jones was fidgeting with his plastic Casio watch – the guy had as much class as a cubic zirconium unicorn. He was looking confused and anxious, wanting desperately to flee the confines of the cold, windowless interrogation room so he could return to the cushy comfort of his suburban living room recliner and watch another episode of The Big Bang Theory he’d recorded on his DVR. Not tonight, fella. Not ‘til I get some answers.
I offered him a cup of coffee. “Thanks, but I don’t drink coffee. Do you happen to have any Diet Mountain Dew?” he asked a little too eagerly. What law-abiding adult in Seattle doesn’t drink coffee – and asks for a teenager’s soft drink instead? Now I knew he was a two-faced liar. I was done playing “good cop,” waiting for his innocent, deer-in-the-headlights façade to crack. This had gone on long enough. It was time to tighten the screws. I lit another smoke.
“So let me get this straight. You’re telling me that thousands of readers from all across the country willingly subscribe to your weekly humor blog? Is that your story? How? I want answers, and I want ‘em NOW,” I barked as I pounded my fist on the one-way mirror, behind which Lt. Jaworski was watching, no doubt taking notes on how he could steal this case from me. What a frickin’ snake, that Jaworski.
“I’m just as confused as you are, Sergeant Marlboro. Have you actually read any of my stuff?
“That’s DETECTIVE Marlboro, fella…”
“Sorry, Detective. I mean, I’m just as mystified as you are as to why anybody would read my weekly rants. Even my wife begged me to stop writing years ago, but I just can’t seem to stop myself. It’s a sickness.”
“Sickness, eh? Well, I’m sick of your lying to me, goddammit.” I glared at him, as he awkwardly shifted his legs on the rusty metal fold-out chair. I took another puff on my Camel filter and blew a charcoal wave of smoke in his face. “Sure. Whatever you say, pal. I got all night.”
Jones pleaded, “What are you charging me with, Marlboro? Is it a crime to write lame humor, officer?”
“The way you write, it sure as Hell is,” I growled back. “And for the last time, it’s Detective, you little weasel.”
This Jones fellow was such a loser. After two hours of my dogged interrogation, he refused to answer any more questions until I agreed to give him back his favorite teddy bear Sparkles, to cuddle with. Pathetic. Just pathetic.
By now Jones was nervously twisting his wedding ring, no doubt coming to the realization that his humor writing was nothing short of criminal – or at the very least a misdemeanor. So how was it he got away with writing this crap for the past sixteen years without being shut down by the Feds? I needed to crack this case and fast – Jaworski was ready to pounce.
But what was Jones’ angle? For the money? Hell, no. This dude wasn’t that clever. I could tell from the fact he wore white socks with his Teva sandals. Now, that’s a crime in itself!
Another hour crept by, like a filthy rat creeping around a dank, dark sewer for, well, about an hour. I started in on my second pack of Camels. “Don’t you find it strange that so many people have tried to unsubscribe from your weekly tome only to keep getting your posts week after week?”
“I’m not sure I would call it a ‘tome’, Detective. I’d say it’s more of an ‘essay.’”
“Don’t get smart with me, chum,” I snarled. I wasn’t buying his ‘Mr. Innocent’ routine. So I grabbed a copy of his latest piece and began to read. What I read next confounded me:
“It was another dark and stormy night in Seattle. The clock on the wall read 3:04 am. And there Tim Jones sat – if that’s even his real name – sticking to his story that all he could be guilty of might be bad writing. But there was a problem. The guy’s story just didn’t add up.”
I had this sudden eerie sense of déjà vu. Then I looked back up at the top of this page and saw. He was stealing my story for his blog, the little conniving bastard.
Jones continued to fidget with his Batman secret decoder ring – the one he claimed he got at the dentist last week for having no cavities. “Like I’ve told you five times, Detective Marlboro, I have no idea why you’re keeping me here. I just like to write. Is it my fault that I’m not very good at it? Who am I hurting?”
“Me for one, you little putz,” I shouted. “Reading your crap is like being forced to drink my own urine.”
“Really? That bad, eh?”
“Worse. Ain’t you got no compassion for the innocent kids who might stumble upon your blog?”
“Actually, the expression is, “Have you no compassion. ‘Ain’t you got no’ is not a grammatical – “
“Shut the hell up. I don’t give a crap,” I told him. Then he started rambling about his favorite post topics – something about teaching his kids how to drive and a message from your cat. Even one on the history of the apology.
That chump owes me a frickin ’apology – for wasting the past five goddamn hours of my life. He kept droning on about his favorite articles. “Stop,” I screamed. “Not another word. Just shut your trap!” This guy was really getting on my nerves. He had to be lying. Nobody could possibly write such inane drivel week after week, year after year and not go insane. And who the freak wears shorts on a rainy night in March? What a loser.
I decided to read a couple of his posts just to be sure I wasn’t missing an important clue. I could barely stomach the first piece called Lessons in Bonding. He was killing me with this stream-of-consciousness bull crap. I looked away from his annoyingly chirpy grin. Dawn was slithering in like… like something that slithers… in the dawn.
The drivel pounding on my brain was as unrelenting as the drizzle pounding on the roof. I looked at his Casio. It blinked 6:47am. We’d been at this for over six hours. But instead of cracking, he just kept on reciting an endless list of his favorite posts – from always lying to your kids, to his sports-impaired wife. I was on my 7th cup of lukewarm Joe, and this goober was still rambling mindlessly on. One of his posts even warned me to not to let my dishwasher destroy my marriage. The guy was a numskull, though on that last one, he had a point.
I finally decided that as criminal as his humor writing was, no one was more a victim of his crimes against humanity than himself. I put out my last Camel, blew the smoke in his face and sneered at this turkey. “Get outta here, ya’ punk. I guess I can’t charge you with anything – yet. And maybe I can’t stop you from writing this crap. But for the love of Pete, please do me one favor.”
“What’s that, Detective?”
“Get yourself a goddamn editor. This week’s piece is way too long!”
I thought that was the end of this story. But the very next week, I got an email inviting me to check out his latest blog piece – called The Interrogation. Sounded fishy. Some twisted fiend must have added me to Jones’ humor blog subscriber list. And I’m pretty sure I know the slime dog who would have signed me up. Goddamn Lieutenant Jaworski. That dirty rotten scoundrel.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.
Subscribe to my View from the Bleachers YouTube Channel and request notifications to see my latest videos. And check out my new book, THE SECRET TO SUCCESS AND HAPPINESS (is Something I Have Never Figured Out. I’ Open to Suggestions).
by TEJ | Oct 12, 2023 | Lifestyles humor, Other Attempts at Humor
When I reached the age of 60, my body started requiring several new replacement parts. So, recently, I’ve endured some of the unique joys of aging: knee replacement surgery, colonoscopies, and most recently, cataract surgery. And they call these the Golden Years? Yeah, right!
I’ve never claimed to be the bravest man in the world. I never served in combat zones like both my parents did. That said, I’d like to point out I did attend an all-boys’ military school (grades 7 – 12) in which I had to march with a gun in several parades. So, that’s on par with serving in ‘Nam or Iraq, don’t you think?
I’m pretty sure I’ll never win the Pulitzer Prize in Courage. (Or is it the Nobel Prize? I always get those two confused.) For decades, I’ve struggled with two longstanding crippling phobias. First, there’s my chronic fear of snakes. If you want to know why, just read my article called I HATE SNAKES.
But my single greatest fear is my morbid anxiety about anything – or anyone – possibly slicing into one of my eyeballs. Okay, make that my second greatest fear. I just remembered my terrifying fear that Trump might actually get re-elected for a second term. But a close second has to be my eyeball phobia. In fact, just typing the word “eyeball” makes me a little queasy.
How severe is my phobia? I’ve worn glasses for the past 25 years. In all that time not once did I ever consider switching to contacts. Just the thought of peeling contact lenses off my eyes grosses me out. To this day, I still can’t go anywhere near a pier where people are fishing for fear someone will cast their line and somehow hook my eyeball.
Recently, it all came to a head – make that an eyeball. That’s because ten years ago, my ophthalmologist told me I had early stage cataracts in both eyes. Eventually I was going to require surgery. If you’re curious as to exactly what happens during cataract surgery, don’t ask me. Go look it up yourself. I don’t have the stomach to read the graphic details of what actually happens during this procedure. I’d probably faint before I reached the third paragraph.
On the cover of the eyecare firm’s brochure it shows a smiling older woman supposedly happy to have regained her youthful eyesight. But tucked away towards the far back is a section with the header “MAJOR RISKS OF CATARACT SURGERY” (these exact words). These include swelling, infection, double vision, droopy eyelids, something called ghost images – the list of possible adverse side effects and complications goes on for several paragraphs. And then the copy sneaks in at the end, “and in rare instances, blindness or even death.” Holy crap! What did I just sign up for?
I am so squeamish about anything dealing with my eyes that I even have trouble looking at a Magic 8 Ball toy – because it reminds me too much of a human eyeball. I know, something’s wrong with me.
For weeks leading up to my surgery, several supportive friends told me they’d had the same procedure, that it was a breeze, and how glad they are that they did it. I learned the typical cataract surgery only takes 20 to 45 minutes – so, roughly the same amount of time it takes Domino’s to deliver my cheese-stuffed pizza.
I want to thank all the kind people who gave me calming words of encouragement. This list, however, does NOT include my racquetball buddy Raymond, who told me – and I’m not making this up – “I hope your doctor isn’t Dr. Witherspoon. He lost his license after he caused several people to go blind as a result of his botched surgeries.” Raymond decided he’d share this traumatizing story precisely one day before I went in for my operation. Thanks, buddy.
Here’s a fun fact sure to keep you awake at night if you’re contemplating cataract surgery: You’re CONSCIOUS during the entire procedure as they slice into your eyeball. Well, sort of. You’re sedated, but technically you’re still awake. That’s because they need to keep you conscious in order to ask you important questions like, “Are you feeling any pain?” and “Which eye did you want us to remove today?” and “Did you remember to sign the liability release form when you checked in today in the off chance Dr. Witherspoon is still hungover and things take a turn for the worse during the procedure?” At least that’s what Raymond told me.
Every year since that initial diagnosis, my eye doctor has reminded me the dreaded day was coming. Last week, after ten years, that frightful day finally arrived. I went in for cataract surgery on my right eye. And in two weeks – assuming I haven’t gone blind, died, or fled the area in a panic – I’m scheduled to go in for the other eye.
You should see what I did to the other guy! Uh, no, not really. This is a selfie I took the next morning after my cataract surgery. I’ll bet I know what you’re thinking: “Tim, I’ve never seen you look better.” Um, thanks.
Thankfully, they drugged me up so much that I had no idea what was going on during my procedure. But just to be on the safe side, as they prepped me, I described my extreme anxiety to the attending anesthesiologist and asked her to administer the maximum “knockout” dosage medically permitted. If it might accidentally cause me to lose my memory of all events that occurred since the year 2016, I told her I was totally okay with that.
I would now like to describe in gory, graphic detail exactly what they did to me in that operating room… but I can’t. Because I don’t remember a thing. Later that day, other than a very mild achiness around my eye, I felt totally fine. The doctor was a miracle worker.
He told me afterwards that I should not lift anything over 25 pounds or extend any significant physical effort for the next two weeks. Of course, I relayed to my wife that the doctor said to avoid any unpleasant physical labor for the next six months. So, it looks like this husband just got out of having to change the cat litter boxes and take out the trash for the foreseeable future – out of an abundance of precaution, mind you.
I just emailed my ophthalmologist to ask him if he could write a letter indicating it’s also not medically safe for me to empty the dishwasher, rake the leaves, make the bed, or assemble the gas grill during this time. I’d just hate for anything to set back my recovery.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.
Subscribe to my View from the Bleachers YouTube Channel and request notifications to see my latest videos. And check out my latest book, THE SECRET TO SUCCESS AND HAPPINESS (is Something I Have Never Figured Out. I’ Open to Suggestions).
by TEJ | Mar 24, 2023 | Lifestyles humor
My wife complains we have way too much stuff. That’s so silly. She thinks that I should give away my boom box just because I haven’t turned it on since 2004. But what if cassette tapes make a comeback? Then what will I have to play my 1970’s Roy Orbison tapes on? Did she ever think about that?
For the past several years, my wife Michele and I have had a running debate about how much stuff to hold onto and whether or not to give away (or in some cases, throw away) some of the rarely used excess items lying around the house.
Michele has a long list of what she considers to be totally unnecessary items that are no longer being used, just taking up space, and should be given away. I’m cautiously optimistic to report that as of this writing, I am not one of the items on that list. But I suspect I’m on the bubble.
I totally agree with my wife that we have too much crap. It’s just that we can’t quite agree on whose crap needs to be jettisoned. For example, we have an entire freezer filled to the brim with frozen broccoli, Brussels sprouts, and cauliflower. I assure you, I will NEVER EVER eat any of these, so if it were my call, I would give all of these away to a needy broccoli-loving home.
But my wife, for reasons unfathomable to me, seems to be under the misguided notion that I’m the far guiltier party when it comes to holding onto things we don’t need. The example she often cites is the fact that I have taken up one full closet to stash memorabilia from my childhood. It consists of barely 25 boxes of papers, photos, art projects and other keepsakes dating back to first grade and continuing through graduate school. It includes important relics like a clay sculpture I made in first grade that looks like a rat but was supposed to be an elephant, my fourth grade social studies report on Uruguay, several high school term papers, and three boxes of letters from college ex-girlfriends.
My wife lamely brings up the minor detail that technically I have not opened up any of these boxes once in the past 30 years. That may be true, but I was planning on getting around to reviewing one box a month very soon – by which I mean whenever I have completely run out of ideas for other things to do in my life.
My wife rightly points out that I have literally dozens of shirts and pants filling up our bedroom closet that I haven’t worn in years (mainly because I can’t fit into any of them at the moment). But I’m planning on losing 40 pounds, and when I finally get down to my college weight, I’ll be so glad I held onto that lime green Nehru jacket and those lavender bell-bottom corduroy slacks for all these years.
This is a small sampling of my collection of novelty hats. I bought them to use in my VFTB YouTube channel videos. My wife points out that I never wear them after the video is done. But I say, you never know when you might need a Viking helmet or a Canadian Mountie hat. I want to be properly attired if the prime ministers of Norway or Canada ever stop by for a visit. It’s good to be prepared.
Anyone who knows me is aware of the fact that I’m seriously into sports of all kinds. The fact that I suck at most of them is beside the point. So, over the years, I’ve accumulated a large assortment of sporting equipment – some of which I actually have used. She pointed out that we never use our badminton set or our croquet set. “And why are you holding onto a second set of golf clubs?,” she rudely intoned the other day. “Because,” I reminded her, “what do I do if Barack Obama – who is a close personal friend of mine ever since we worked out together – came to visit and wanted to play golf?” You never know when you may need a backup set of clubs.
The list of items my wife wants me to give away is getting longer by the day. It includes such precious heirlooms as my Rock’em Sock’em Robots set which I got for Christmas in 4th grade (the red boxer still works). She also questions why I’m still holding onto my extensive assortment of 1980s movies on VHS – since we haven’t had a VHS player for years. But I will have you know I still have every Ace Ventura, Pet Detective movie Jim Carrey ever made.. And I’m sure you’d agree that my Director’s Cut VHS edition of Patrick Swayze’s cult classic Road House alone will be worth a small fortune someday.
For reasons I still don’t grok, my wife also feels there is no reason to keep my 1992 Casio keyboard. It’s true that I can’t remember the last time I played it. But now that I’m retired, I was planning on taking up piano again. I explained to my wife that it’s never too late to start a music career. I reminded her that Willie Nelson didn’t even take up singing until he was 58 years old. Imagine that! Okay, so technically that’s a lie, but my wife didn’t know that. And I needed this statistic to bolster my case to let me hold onto my Casio player.
This is CHOMPERS, my guard T-Rex that sits next to my desk in my office. For some insane reason I can’t fathom, my wife feels it’s ridiculous for a man my age to have a giant stuffed animal in my office. She says we should get rid of it. But I pointed out that if we gave away Chompers, how would I protect myself from deadly rhinoceros sneak attacks while I’m writing?
She keeps harping about all the items she feels we should get rid of. But the door swings both ways. There are several items she still clings onto, like her voluminous inventory of art supplies – not to mention her closet full of dresses, blouses and jewelry – none of which I have worn in years. But you don’t see me telling her to throw out her cherished possessions. Because I am a considerate spouse.
I’m willing to meet my wife halfway. I’m open to compromise. Heck, I long ago stopped complaining when she kept putting the toilet paper rolls on the wrong way (under instead of over). I no longer bring up the fact that she still doesn’t know how to properly load the dishwasher. So, don’t tell me I’m not willing to be reasonable and accommodating.
But there’s a line in the sand my wife had better not cross. If she thinks for one second I’m going to let her throw out my three-feet-long stuffed animal whale named Maybe Dick that I got for my birthday in second grade, then she’s in for an ugly fight. I’d no sooner part with Maybe Dick than I’d let go of my priceless collection of life-size Simpsons action figures. My daughters will thank me someday.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.
Subscribe to my new View from the Bleachers YouTube Channel and request notifications to see my latest videos. And check out my new book, THE SECRET TO SUCCESS AND HAPPINESS (is Something I Have Never Figured Out. I’ Open to Suggestions).
