We recently got a new coffee maker, which is something I’ve only been asking for since, roughly, the Bush administration. My working theory was simple: “Why does our coffee taste like flavored water?” Apparently that wasn’t a compelling argument. What worked was my wife getting a new job, which unlocked the “gift to myself” justification, which is the phrase people use when they have a little more money than they want to admit.

The new machine does make better coffee. It has a Bold button, which I respect. The Bold button charges you for the improvement in time — double the brew, double the wait — but the coffee tastes like actual coffee, so I’ll take it. She has full creative control over the settings. My only request is that every used coffee ground gets dumped on my roses for the next few weeks. My front roses have never looked better, which means at least someone in this house is consistently benefiting from my persistence.

My wife has also appointed herself Veto Queen of household ideas — specifically mine. The lamp situation is Exhibit A. We have a shared recliner, and there used to be a lamp right between our two seats until the recliner ate the cord. Poor planning or spousal plotting — jury’s still out. Since then I’ve been campaigning: “Can we get this lamp?” “What about this one?” My questions are never ignored, exactly. They’re just not acted on, which starts to feel like the same thing. Her explanation is always that she just hasn’t found one she likes.

This from a woman who can summon TEMU packages like she’s running a small import operation. The wedding shower boxes arrive daily. She knows how to search, scroll, and buy things she wants to find. I’m not saying she’s uninterested in my lamp. I’m just saying it smells a lot like she is.

The blackout curtain situation is a separate grievance. Our bedroom windows face east. This is wonderful for cool evenings on the back patio and terrible for a man who cannot go back to sleep once he knows the sun has clocked in and a hot day is waiting. All last spring and into summer I was awake before seven with no alarm and no plan to be awake before seven.

The blinds help. They don’t cancel the sun. I could wear a sleep mask, but I already wear earplugs to mute the night’s musical selections. Shutting down two of five senses before bed every night feels excessive. In tornado country, it could also be fatal. When my wife says it’s a shame I don’t sleep better, I smile and nod, confident in my own theories about why.

In a small act of rebellion, I ordered a chicken shredder. We grill a few pounds of chicken every week, and I have long believed our enchiladas would be better with shredded chicken instead of chunks. The device is simple — toss in the cooked chicken, twist a few times, done. Before I ordered, I made one strategic decision: orange. My color, unmistakably. Every household member would see that shredder and know whose idea it was. It was cheap, and I was prepared to absorb any guilt that came my way.

It arrived the next morning. She asked what it was with genuine enthusiasm. I explained — chicken shredder, better enchiladas, game changer. Without looking up, she said she’d had one on her list for a while and just hadn’t gotten around to ordering it yet.

Sure you did, dear.

The coffee is better. The roses are thriving. The enchiladas are improving. The lamp, I assume, is still under review.