Marriage

The Chip My Wife Never Plays

It’s been hot in Oklahoma again this summer. Since this is only our second year here and most of our plants aren’t cactus, I’ve been talking to the mower man about an irrigation system. Turns out he’s also an electrician. Turns out he also has a friend who installs sprinklers. The man contains multitudes.

Before leaving for Europe, he gave me a ballpark quote. The allpark numbers pushing $5,000, maybe more.

I told him, “I think my wife will let me have this one.”

She did not let me have this one.

She’d go for something around half his estimate, and I already know that number is the conservative one. So the sprinkler system joined the long list of projects that have quietly died in our house. I get it. I own it.

Here’s why I own it so completely: a few years ago, I carved off a little chunk of our retirement money and handed it to algo trading bots and crypto. My financial advisor told me not to. I did it anyway. That decision gave Judy a veto power that isn’t close to 50-50. It’s more like 60-40, and some days I think she’s being generous with the 40.

I recently sat down with my advisor to close out the company I’d run for twenty years, the one that funded my brief career as a degenerate gambler with better vocabulary. I apologized for not listening to him. He was kind about it, which somehow made it worse. He’s clearly seen clients make mistakes that make mine look like a rounding error. Small comfort, but I’ll take it.

So now, when Judy wants a pedicure or a hot tub or literally anything, I zip it. I’ve earned exactly zero opinions on discretionary spending for the foreseeable future.

The strange part is how well this has worked out for me.

I’ve always been a guy who likes to get his way. Guilt turns out to be a remarkably effective muzzle. I can’t fully bury that part of my personality, but knowing I torched a chunk of our savings on bots that promised passive income and delivered passive regret keeps me in check more than any argument ever could.

Judy has a chip she could play anytime she wants. One mention of the crypto years and I’d fold like a lawn chair. She’s never played it. Not once. She’ll give me a look sometimes, the kind that says she knows exactly what she could say, and then she just doesn’t say it.

That’s either extraordinary restraint or a very patient long game. I haven’t ruled out either.

I only let myself get clipped in one category, though: money. Everywhere else, I’m still fully operational. And even the money-clipping is mostly self-imposed, which I realize makes me sound like a man bragging about his own house arrest.

In overpriced Iceland, while I was doing math in my head over every hot dog, Judy said, “I don’t want to think about the money. I want to enjoy our vacation.”

I have never once had that thought naturally. I have to be talked into it, every time, like it’s a foreign language.

Her attitude about money has genuinely made our marriage better, especially given that she married a guy who projects financial competence while quietly having handed his savings to a chatbot with delusions of Wall Street. Not every marriage survives getting frisked by a promise of “regular ongoing income” that turns out to mean regular ongoing losses. To be fair to the bots, they never actually promised me anything. That was the marketing department’s job, and they did it well.

The one thing keeping me from full self-pity is that my company did make real money, and I did put a good chunk of it away. So it’s not like both hands were empty. One hand made it, the other hand threw it into a wood chipper. Not the trade I was hoping for, but it beats “I lost it all,” which is the version of this story I could’ve been telling you.

I can’t undo the bad calls. I can keep telling anyone who’ll listen that “get rich quick” is a genre of fiction, not a strategy. There might be legitimate investment opportunities out there that won’t put a dent in your marriage. I’m sure there are. I just haven’t found many worth chasing once the number gets into six digits, and I’ve stopped assuming my judgment is sharper than everyone else’s.

Turns out the actual smart move was never picking the right algorithm. It was marrying someone who didn’t need one.

Furniture Surgery

Let the record show: I did not order the coffee station. My wife did.

And when I gently suggested — the night before assembly day — that it would be great if the person ordering things that need assembling might consult the person who assembles things before clicking “buy,” she had a ready answer.

“I did,” she said. “And she said it was fine.”

I made a mental note to meet this woman someday.

I’m not a natural assembler. I have Allen wrench skills the way some people have “a little Spanish” — functional in a pinch, dangerous if overconfident.

But marriage is not a walk in the park, and nearly 35 years in, I know when to show up with my wrench and my mouth mostly shut.

When I got back from my walk Saturday morning, she already had more than half of it built. In the living room. With the bolts and screws dumped on the couch — which, for the record, is fake leather, and I spent a quiet moment calculating the odds of one of those screws finding a seam.

I said nothing.

After lunch, I offered to help. She said she had it. I insisted. That was either a loving gesture or a tactical error, depending on how the afternoon went.

My role was clear from the start: brawn, not brain. She was the director. I was the stagehand who also happened to go digging through the junk drawer for a second Allen wrench — either to speed things up or, as I later theorized, to get things wrong twice as fast.

She’s usually the one who saves the day with the manual. I follow directions roughly. She follows them correctly. Knowing this, I made the executive decision not to look at the instructions at all, which gave me a kind of plausible deniability I found very comforting.

We tightened bolts. We stood it up. She declared only a couple of things needed finishing, and I stepped back, fully prepared to let her close it out.

Thirty minutes later, I got the update. “Everything is on the wrong side. I need to flip this piece.”

Still not consulting the directions, I did what she said. We flipped the piece. Then we learned the middle section didn’t have holes where holes needed to be.

We removed the top, attempted what I can only describe as furniture surgery, reconnected everything, stood it up — “That’s just like it was before. I wanted the mug hooks on the other side.”

Here’s what I want you to know about my wife: she is self-aware, and she is funny, and when things go sideways, she does not quietly suffer.

The afternoon was generously seasoned with “Uh’s” and “Ah’s” and at least two “What in the worlds.” She narrated her own frustration with the kind of honest self-deprecation that, in the right marriage, doubles as entertainment.

I almost jumped in and seconded every single one of her accusations. I didn’t. One of those mysterious moments where the better version of you shows up uninvited and makes the call. I just handed her the next bolt and kept my face neutral.

She did say she was “fine” at one point, and I did ask — because I apparently cannot be fully silent — “Do you often talk to yourself like that?”

She gave me the look. Then the wink. We were on the same page.

The coffee station is now against the wall. My wife is moving the mugs and the coffee maker with a small frown — she doesn’t love how it looks, but the plan is the plan, and the counter space will be worth it.

It might be transitional furniture. It might get replaced in six months. That is above my pay grade.

What I know is this: I showed up. I turned off most of my brain and offered the rest of myself. I didn’t complain — which, if you know me, deserves at least a footnote.

I spent a Saturday afternoon next to my person, getting something wrong together, and quietly choosing her over the joke every time it counted.

That’s not nothing. After 35 years, that might actually be everything.

But I do hope she checks with me before the next one arrives.

Date Night, Retirement Style

Family visits start Saturday in Columbus, and our daughter’s crew is off doing their own pre-twins celebration, which meant Judy and I had the house and no real plan for dinner. Last week’s Sam’s Club haul was gone — cooked, eaten, or handed off to kids. Nobody wanted warm-ups. So we went out.

In our defense, we barely tried to stock the fridge for these ten days between trips. We split a Costco pizza across three meals with a couple of bag salads propping it up. We got a burrito bowl from Chipotle and ate our own chips with it, which I’ve decided counts as cooking out. I also grilled some chicken. That’s real. I marinated it and everything.

We’re also deep in our post-cruise phase, which means yogurt and protein shakes for lunch, because apparently the responsible move after a week of unlimited soft serve and buffets is to eat like we’re training for something.

Before picking a restaurant, we did what any financially disciplined household does: dug through the gift card drawer. This particular card came from our hockey boy, who totaled his car on the way to practice — a gift for “going above and beyond,” which is a generous way of describing talking to a police officer before 9:00 outside a charter school. It didn’t have much left on it, but Bricktown Brewery had a happy hour hamburger special and an all-day pizza deal if we got seated before 6:00. That was all the motivation we needed to get out the door.

I tried to be an aggressive driver. Someone else tried to be an aggressive driver at me. I missed the entrance to the restaurant entirely, had to loop around at the light, and dropped Judy off to fight for our spot on the waitlist before anyone else could sneak their name in ahead of ours. Ten to fifteen minute wait, she reported. A good number. Enough to stretch the gift card to its full potential while doing penance for the opulence of our European trip.

We were seated by 5:45 and already knew our order before the menus hit the table. When the waiter asked about drinks, we let him know we’d be getting the free ones that came with the ten-dollar hamburger deal. Lemonade for both of us. I asked Judy if I was worth the extra dollar fifty for sweet potato fries. She said yes, which, if you’ve been married a couple dozen years, is code for “I love you” and also “please stop asking me this.”

I should mention that settling into the gap between trips does not bring out my best self. Judy knows this and indulges me anyway, more than she probably should.

Pizzas kept coming out of the kitchen while we sipped our lemonade, and half-priced wood-fired pizza is a genuinely hard thing to say no to. But the foil in our toaster oven was still greasy from the Costco pizza’s reign of terror, so we held the line. Barely.

The hamburgers arrived just before 6:00. Same basket, different colored fries. Ketchup was not my choice of condiment for sweet potato fries, but they were never the main event anyway. The burger was the star. Judy cut hers in half to create the illusion of restraint, then barely paused before starting on the second half. Her fries had come cold. We considered asking for new ones, but since she had no intention of eating them regardless, sending them back felt like theater. I’ve been a jerk before. Usually to family. I know my limits.

She tossed me a few of her fries before we noticed our baskets were mostly empty and flagged down the check.

Turns out the gift card only had $6.50 left on it. Judy handled payment, which has been her job ever since I developed a reputation for being stingy on tips. She’s better at that kind of math than I am — more aware, more generous. Every so often she asks me to bump it up a couple of dollars, and I don’t put up much of a fight. We both like the total to land on a round number, so a dollar or two of rounding doesn’t bother me.

By the time we got back in the car, only forty minutes had passed since we put our names down. The restaurant probably would’ve preferred we lingered over a beer or two, but they held up their end of the deal, and so did we. Judy didn’t plan on getting home in time for Wheel of Fortune, but with the food coming out that fast, it was hard to avoid.

Her word for the whole night was “efficient.” We’re both home all day — she’s working remotely, I’m on babysitting duty when it’s offered — so by dinner we’ve already said everything we need to say to each other. No chit-chat required. We’re deep into overlap territory on our list of conversation topics, and with more travel ahead, we’ll be leaning on our European stories for a while. We tell them well. People seem to think we’re funny. Really, we’re just two people who’ve rehearsed the same bits on each other enough times to have the timing down.

Efficient eaters, happiest in our own recliners. You will not find a more thrilling dinner date than us.

The Men’s Invitational

Of the five stops on our Golden Circle excursion in Iceland, the Secret Lagoon ranked dead last on my excitement meter. It wasn’t because I dislike warm water. I love warm water. We have a hot tub at home. I’m practically a warm-water connoisseur. No, my hesitation had everything to do with the pregame festivities. Somewhere in Iceland, someone decided the proper way to relax was to strip down in a communal changing room, squeeze my aggressively average middle-aged body into a swimsuit in front of complete strangers, take a mandatory shower while carefully avoiding accidental eye contact, and then act as though this was perfectly normal human behavior. Judy, ever the optimist, smiled and said, “It’ll be fun!” She has said those three words before. They rarely precede something I would have voluntarily signed up for.

So, in the interest of preserving marital harmony, I followed directions, survived the changing room without creating an international incident, and joined Judy in the thermal pool. It was beautiful. Steam drifted across the water while volcanic rock framed the lagoon. We slowly wandered around looking for the warmest spot like two human rotisserie chickens. It was peaceful. Relaxing. Picturesque. And after about fifteen minutes, I was bored out of my mind.

Sharing a hot tub with my wife is enjoyable. Sharing a giant natural hot tub with my wife and three busloads of strangers is…different. There are only so many laps you can make around warm water before your brain starts looking for a side quest.

That’s when I discovered the cold pool.

Now, Judy insisted on testing the water first. Rookie mistake. If you’re going to make a bad decision, don’t let facts interfere. Just commit. She dipped a foot in, immediately reconsidered every flight that had brought her to Iceland, and stepped back. I climbed in, lowered myself into the water, and began repeating, “Oh my gosh…oh my gosh…OH MY GOSH,” with all the confidence of a man who was suddenly questioning whether circulation was really all that important.

I managed to sit down. Judy’s body held an emergency board meeting and unanimously voted against the proposal. She was back in the thermal pool before I had finished convincing myself that the pain was temporary.

Not far behind her, I returned to the warm water where my body slowly remembered how nerves were supposed to function. That’s when another man from our excursion wandered over to the cold pool with his son. I asked if I could join them because apparently nothing builds lifelong friendships faster than voluntarily lowering your core body temperature together. We introduced ourselves, talked about our excursion, and eventually discovered he was from Oslo.

Of course he was.

I couldn’t accidentally be freezing next to an accountant from Nebraska. No, I had to find a Norwegian. A real Scandinavian. A man whose ancestors probably considered frozen lakes to be recreational facilities.

Since we had visited Oslo a few days earlier, we talked about the palace and the King’s Guard. When I mentioned taking pictures with the guards, he casually informed me that he had once been one of them.

Naturally.

So now, without either of us saying a word, my brain quietly transformed this conversation into an international competition.

The amazing part was that talking distracted both of us from the cold. The water didn’t get warmer. My body wasn’t any happier. But conversation somehow convinced my brain to stop sending constant updates about my rapidly disappearing body heat. His son wisely climbed out first. Then, after another minute or so, my Norwegian friend stood up and climbed out.

I waited.

One Mississippi…two Mississippi…then I climbed out.

Was he competing with me?

Absolutely not.

Did he know there was a contest?

Not even a little.

Did I still consider it one of my greatest athletic accomplishments?

Without question.

I have no trophy. Iceland did not present me with a certificate. There is no internationally recognized governing body for “Middle-Aged Men Sitting in Cold Water Slightly Longer Than Necessary.” But somewhere in my memory is the undeniable fact that I remained in a freezing Icelandic pool a few seconds longer than a Norwegian, and nobody can ever take that away from me.

The return to the thermal pool was glorious. My body didn’t simply warm up; it rebooted. Every nerve ending woke up one painful pinprick at a time until I felt like someone had microwaved me back to life. It was oddly satisfying, which explains why I kept repeating the process over and over during the next hour.

That’s when I noticed something.

The women floated peacefully through the lagoon, chatting, relaxing, and enjoying the scenery exactly as the Secret Lagoon was intended.

The men wandered over to the cold pool.

One by one.

They all wore the same expression—the look every guy gets right before making a questionable decision simply because another guy already has.

Some dipped a toe and immediately abandoned the mission. Others managed to sit down before their nervous systems filed formal complaints. A couple. Three brothers. Several confident-looking men who discovered confidence and body temperature are only loosely connected. Everyone of them climbed out before I did.

Somewhere during that hour, the Secret Lagoon quietly became the Men’s Invitational Cold Water Championships. There were no officials, no spectators, and certainly no prizes. Just a handful of middle-aged guys unknowingly competing in an event none of us had discussed.

The rules were simple.

Last man shivering wins.

Looking back, I don’t think I proved I was particularly tough. If anything, I proved something I’ve suspected about men for years. Give us a perfectly relaxing experience, and we’ll invent a competition. Give us a beautiful Icelandic lagoon, and we’ll ignore ninety-five percent of it because there’s a tiny freezing pool over in the corner daring someone to do something stupid.

Judy left relaxed.

I left convinced I had defeated Norway.

Honestly, we both had a wonderful afternoon.

I’m just fairly certain only one of us enjoyed the lagoon the way it was originally intended.

The Fastest Way Through the Line Was Waiting Your Turn

I don’t like writing posts that sound whiny. Nobody enjoys listening to the guy who thinks the universe has singled him out for special mistreatment. That guy is exhausting. This isn’t one of those stories. This is a story about justice. Tiny, insignificant, airport-line justice.

With our trip coming to an end, we arrived at the airport in Iceland expecting a relatively painless journey home. We did have one minor hiccup. Our airline ticket didn’t perfectly match my passport, so we had to stop at customer assistance before heading to security. No big deal. We stood in line, got it fixed, and confidently marched toward security after seeing the magical words every traveler wants to read: Estimated Wait: 5–10 Minutes. Airport monitors, I’ve learned, have a very loose relationship with reality.

Security apparently found both of our bags interesting. My wife’s bag was pulled aside because of medication. Mine was selected because, apparently, someone wanted a closer look at my charming personality. A security officer carried my backpack to a separate table, glanced inside for about three seconds, and handed it back. “You can take it.” My internal response was something along the lines of, Thank you for your tireless dedication to international safety. I feel much more secure knowing my backpack survived its three-second interrogation. This came only days after Copenhagen security permanently confiscated our oversized battery pack. We were informed, with all the warmth of an automated voicemail, that it was simply too large. My wife attempted a respectful appeal and was rewarded with the timeless customer service phrase, “Not in Copenhagen.” Apparently, that settled everything. Thankfully, our Iceland tour bus had USB charging ports, so civilization survived. None of this was bad luck yet. This was just Tuesday at an airport.

As we headed toward the D Terminal, we encountered passport control. Picture three large rooms connected by an endless maze of stanchions filled with weary travelers whose backpacks had somehow gained twenty pounds since vacation began. The line actually moved fairly well, but every so often we’d set our backpacks on the floor to give our shoulders a short break. It was a small, human, “I need to put this bag down for ten seconds” gap. Apparently, we made a critical mistake. We believed a line was measured by people. The couple behind us measured it by inches.

The moment a gap of approximately eighteen inches appeared, the wife quietly eased around us and tucked herself in behind the gentleman ahead of us. It wasn’t aggressive enough to qualify as shoving. It was more…creative. They didn’t apologize. They didn’t acknowledge us. They simply acted as though the laws of queuing had briefly been suspended for their convenience. It reminded me of one of those nature documentaries. “Observe the Queue Optimizer,” David Attenborough might narrate. “Rather than waiting patiently with the herd, she quietly advances whenever a tiny opening appears, gaining nearly eleven seconds while sacrificing all social credibility.” Honestly, if they’d skipped forty people, I might have admired the commitment. But cutting ahead of two people? That’s not bold. That’s just morally inefficient.

Then her husband announced from behind us, “I need to go forward to be with my wife.” As if we were the only thing standing between two star-crossed lovers who had been tragically separated by…about three feet.

My wife responded before I had the chance. “What are you doing? You don’t cut in line.” She’s never been particularly gifted at pretending injustice doesn’t exist. If there were a world championship for confronting people who ignore obvious rules, she’d at least qualify for regionals. The gentleman in front of us joined the conversation as well, making it abundantly clear that he wasn’t impressed with Team Queue Optimization either. The couple ignored all of us. It’s amazing how much confidence some people possess when they’re absolutely convinced that social norms apply only to everyone else.

A few minutes later, another Canadian couple struck up a conversation with us and, after witnessing the whole episode, felt obligated to assure us that not all Canadians behaved that way. We laughed, enjoyed talking with them the rest of the way through the line, and I decided there was no reason to hold an entire country responsible for the actions of two aspiring queue entrepreneurs. International relations had officially been restored.

Eventually, we reached passport control, where everyone had to choose one of several available officers. This is where Karma quietly clocked in for her shift. The Line Cutters confidently selected one lane while we picked another. Our line moved like an express checkout. Their line appeared to be staffed by someone conducting passport interviews as part of a doctoral dissertation. By the time we cleared passport control, found a coffee shop, ordered our drinks, and sat down, they still hadn’t made it through. I noticed, of course, but I resisted the temptation to smile in their direction. Not because I had suddenly become spiritually mature. Mostly because I didn’t want my wife to notice them first. She has a wonderful heart, but subtle victory celebrations are not one of her stronger gifts.

Before anyone accuses me of celebrating someone else’s misfortune, I should probably confess that I’m not always the model traveler. I’ve occasionally maneuvered around slower walkers after leaving a cruise ship. I’ve probably sighed louder than necessary behind someone trying to fit a week’s worth of souvenirs into an overhead compartment. I’m sure my own Karma account contains a few unpaid balances. That’s probably why this little airport moment felt so satisfying. It wasn’t because two people had to wait a little longer. It was because, for one brief and beautiful moment, the universe reminded us that shortcuts don’t always pay off.

Sometimes waiting your turn is actually the fastest route. And sometimes the reward isn’t getting there first. Sometimes it’s sitting fifty feet away with a surprisingly good cup of airport coffee while watching poetic justice quietly do its thing.

If that’s Karma, she’s welcome to join us for coffee anytime.

Fireworks, Vacuum Bags, and the Woman Keeping Me Semi‑Functional

I asked my son if I could borrow his vacuum packing bags, and for about ten minutes I actually believed I’d been handed a personal black hole. Suck the air out, and my “will it be cold or warm in the Baltics?” wardrobe folds down into something almost manageable. The clothes really do take up less room. What the bags also do is create a small mystery, because somewhere in there is a version of me who decided a swimsuit and a fleece belonged in the same airtight tomb, and I have zero memory of making that call. Judy gets to unpack the evidence on the cruise and reverse-engineer my packing logic like a forensic scientist of poor decisions. The answer to what I was thinking is, frankly, none of my business.

The morning after the 4th, our trash cans and the neighborhood port-a-potties were all flat on their sides, and none of them were drunk. They just lost a fight with the wind, the same wind that knocked out some power for good measure. One of our cans apparently sacrificed itself against the downspout to keep one of my roses standing, and I’ve been considering a small ceremony for it. Standing in the yard afterward, looking at the mess, I remember thinking this seemed like exactly the right week to leave the country.

Somewhere in the last week I also had to have an honest conversation with myself about cake. I’m a cookie and brownie guy, through and through. Some of the women in my life still like to bake cake, and it’s good cake, thoughtful cake, and I will eat exactly one piece and never come back for seconds. I haven’t found a way to say this out loud without sounding ungrateful, so for now the plan is something like, “This is delicious, but I’m staying loyal to my first love.” If that doesn’t land, I may just start cutting brownies into circles and calling it diplomacy.

Then there’s the cookout math. Hosting a vegetarian and not ending up with a fridge full of regret takes a real system. Don’t make excess to begin with. Freeze what’s left if you do. And if the day after you leave happens to be trash day, empty the fridge like you’re turning in a rental car, no evidence left behind. With Judy already gone a few days ahead of me and my own appetite in no hurry to expand, I’ve been running rules two and three on a case by case basis, like a one-man Supreme Court of Leftovers.

We also got the house ready for a couple staying with us one of the weekends we’re gone. We’re not running an Airbnb, so nobody’s expecting turndown service. Make sure the AC works, keep something cold and non-alcoholic in the fridge, and accept that the only bed built for two people in this house is staying off limits, no exceptions. The two downstairs beds, formerly belonging to our kids who’ve moved on to careers and bigger things, will do fine. My only real hope is that they remember to turn the thermostat back up when they leave — there’s a whole system of checks and balances built around that one, and I’ll probably forget most of it until the electric bill shows up and I gasp in three languages.

The rain and wind ganged up on the mulched trees too, undoing more of that “mulch glue” project than I want to think about. I had plans, actual plans, curved edges and everything. Then the weather rolled through and turned it into a lumpy suggestion of landscaping, and at some point there’s nothing left to do beyond the effort already spent. I said “uncle,” out loud, to nobody, and decided the mulch’s rebellion isn’t allowed to bother me again until mid-August.

Without an irrigation system, we’ve been watering constantly, and while we’re gone the job falls to the kids (my son and his wife) who live a street over. The instructions I gave them sound less like a plan and more like a riddle: if it rains plenty you can ease off, unless it’s also been brutally hot, in which case trust the ground to sort itself out anyway. Keep everything alive, don’t drown it, good luck. Explaining this out loud, I realized my only real qualification for any of it is owning a shovel.

All of that was just warm-up for the fireworks. Judy had come off a disappointing, rain-delayed show at Scissortail Park and wanted her real finale, so after watching as much of a delayed soccer game as we could stand, we went hunting for the one spot that might deliver it, fireworks pilgrims in search of the promised land. A packed grocery store parking lot looked promising, though it made no promises. We moved our sitting towel exactly once and settled for the best angle available. A drone show with patriotic shapes went first, then the fireworks started, framed nicely between two guys in lawn chairs who’d claimed the spot ahead of us. Fifteen minutes in, Judy turned and said, “This is the finale I wanted Friday night, but I got a dud instead.” Two separate fires had apparently thrown off the whole schedule that first night. When this show kept going past what felt like the ending, we took it as a gift, got up, and cleared the lot just as the real finale wrapped up behind us — no gridlock, no extended parking lot purgatory.

My relationship with fireworks comes down to one rule: if the drive home takes longer than the show, it counts against the whole evening. This time we got out early, Judy was next to me, and I called it “fine.” From me, that’s basically a standing ovation, and she knew it.

With fireworks behind us, the countdown to vacation officially starts. There are still the fake fears and the vague what-ifs that show up before every trip and never mean anything once we’re actually there. But somewhere past all that noise, there’s a good vacation waiting. Judy’s the one who keeps turning this pile of wind-flattened trash cans and rebellious mulch and questionable packing decisions into a story instead of a crisis. I just need to get out of my own way and let it happen. If I can’t manage that for myself, I’ll manage it for her.

Pre‑Trip Logistics and My Fragile Sense of Competence

Two weeks before we leave for Europe, I ordered a universal plug adapter on Amazon.

About two hours later, I found the one we already owned sitting right in front of me. I did not tell my wife. What I said was, “It’s probably a good idea to have two of them.” She believed me, or she was kind enough to pretend she did. Either way, my fragile sense of competence lived to fight another day.

Packing for this trip is more complicated than it sounds. If we were flying straight to the cruise ship in Copenhagen, it would be simple—once you’re on the boat, American plugs work, and a European adapter just doubles your chances of having too many things charging at once. But we’re spending a few days in Germany first, which means adapters matter. On our British Isles cruise a couple of years ago, we needed European plugs for exactly one night before the cruise and zero nights after. Different math applies here: five nights of actual need, twenty nights of me obsessing about it like we’re going off‑grid.

My wife will be flying to Houston for work the Monday before we leave. I won’t join her until Thursday. Her plan—which is honestly a good one—is to take a work suitcase to Houston, have our daughter ship it back to our son in Oklahoma, and then go to the airport together Friday afternoon with one checked bag and one carry‑on. Clean. Simple. Elegant. Almost guaranteed to be attacked by reality at some point, but I admire the ambition and I appreciate that someone in this marriage can visualize a straight line.

We borrowed vacuum packing bags from our son to make the most of our space. I have doubts about this. Not strong doubts, but doubts. In theory, vacuum bags help you pack smarter. In practice, they help you pack more, which is how a three‑week trip starts to look like we’re quietly moving to a new continent under witness protection.

The temperature question is the one keeping me up. Europe was hot last week, but it might cool off and be hot again by the time we get to certain ports. We overpacked for cold on the British Isles trip. We overpacked for cold in Alaska. At some point you’d think we’d learn. The problem is that packing for heat and then hitting a cold snap makes you look like someone who doesn’t know how to use a search engine. I would like to not be that person this time, mostly for my own dignity and the ability to walk off the ship without looking like I dressed in the dark.

We also had to reorder umbrellas. We lost our last pair somewhere between packing and unpacking after the British Isles trip. Maybe the OKC move got them. Maybe they saw our packing style and ran away to live with a more responsible family. Either way, they’re gone. Two new ones have arrived, which means somewhere in this house, there are four umbrellas slowly planning a reunion, and I will absolutely find all of them three days after we get home.

The t‑shirt debate is more personal. In my younger years, I loved the clever phrase shirts—the ones that made strangers think I was witty without me actually having to talk to them. Now I want the opposite. Minimal design. Small logo. Something that asks nothing of anyone. I’ll probably wear my Texas shirt because I lived there. Maybe a hat with the hockey team logo from the boys we billet. The older I get, the less I want to be noticed and the more I want to be comfortable. That’s my fashion evolution: from “look at me” to “I’m fine, let’s all move on.”

One souvenir I’m almost certain to bring home is a t‑shirt I’ll wear on the next trip. That’s the full circle: buy shirt, wear shirt, repeat, occasionally remember the trip, almost never impress anyone. It’s a quiet investment in future laundry.

The karaoke situation deserves a mention. My wife has already brought it up multiple times—how excited she is to watch it on the ship. I do not love karaoke. When the same person who cannot carry a tune insists on performing multiple nights in a row, the novelty fades faster than my patience. I’ll be there. I’ll smile. I’ll clap at the right times. She knows I’ll be there and smiling, and that’s probably why she keeps mentioning it—she enjoys the show, I enjoy the sociology experiment of watching one person’s confidence outlive everyone else’s eardrums.

So here we are: twelve days out. Adapters acquired (twice). Vacuum bags borrowed. Umbrellas replaced. T‑shirts effectively sorted into “attention‑seeking” and “emotionally stable.” Karaoke mentally prepared for.

We’re basically ready—or at least as ready as two people can be when one of them keeps ordering things we technically already own and the other one kindly pretends this is part of the plan.

The Meld

We slipped out early this morning for something we haven’t done in a while: breakfast out, just the two of us. No wedding tasks, no health-kick negotiations, no pajama-based standoffs. Just us, cloudy skies, and the promise of biscuits.

Neighborhood Jam was full of early-summer Oklahoma energy. Grandparents everywhere, doing their annual June bonding before sports and vacations steal the kids away. One grandmother was showing her grandkids photos on her phone — Nova Scotia, London — and I had a flashback to the slide-carousel era of my youth. Back then, “family vacation recap” meant a darkened room, a projector clicking through three trays, and the quiet hope you wouldn’t be called on to identify which mountain range this one was. My dad asked good questions. The rest of us worked on staying upright.

A guy two tables over had brought his own flavored creamer dispenser from home. Just walked it in. I didn’t judge. The accommodations we make to get our spouses to cooperate are either slightly embarrassing or completely normal, and I’ve stopped trying to figure out which.

Our waitress was the kind of person who makes you feel like the restaurant is running better simply because she’s there. She brought coffee, water, and milk in a small pitcher before we thought to ask for any of it. When I got up for the bathroom, I told Judy I wanted to switch to decaf if she came by. On the way, I ran into her and mentioned it. I came back to a yellow (yellow = decaf; orange = regular) cup already waiting. Judy briefly elevated her to oracle status and bumped the tip accordingly, before working out the much simpler explanation.

Her sister works there too. They cover each other’s refills, so at one point both of them were at our table simultaneously. Did they look alike? Judy was certain. I said I guessed so. These are the kinds of spousal perception gaps I’ve stopped trying to close.

Then our pastor walked in, wearing a hat and carrying the same allergy-induced nasal twang I’ve been sporting for six weeks. Oklahoma solidarity.

And then the moment.

I told Judy I couldn’t imagine being married to anyone else. She asked if that meant I’d never remarry. And I, rather than recognizing what was being handed to me, answered like a man being deposed by attorneys.

“I don’t think so.”

Not no. Not never. “I don’t think so.” Technically defensible. Romantically catastrophic.

We circled back, as we do. I said something about mellowing, about fitting together, about how whatever we’ve built took a long time and probably can’t be rebuilt from scratch. Judy nodded and said, “We’ve melded.” She’s right. We have.

The official answer — the one that goes on record — is simply: no.

Yes, melded is the right word. I just wish I’d gotten there faster.

The Mercy Rule

I showed up at 8:15 for an 8:30 appointment with an empty stomach and low expectations.

That’s the deal with the annual physical—no breakfast, no coffee, and a brain running at about 60% of its usual speed. I don’t fast for spiritual reasons or wellness trends. I fast because my doctor needs clean blood numbers, and I comply like a slightly resentful teenager.

The elevator was out. I walked to the third floor instead of the second, which meant the man behind me who was more upset about the elevator than I was slipped ahead at check-in. He seemed like he needed the win more than I did.

The waiting room was generous with its space. Nobody had to sit near anyone else, which suited me fine. I have a tendency to turn my extrovert on in public, and once it’s on, it doesn’t always know when to stop. A stranger in a medical waiting room has things going on under the surface you can’t see. So I did what everyone else did. I stared at my phone like it owed me money.

They called me back second. First was the scale. Shoes weigh something. They used to account for that—a five-pound mercy rule, basically. Someone decided to eliminate it, and now the number just stares back at you. My BMI is what it is. A functional chubby-ness has carried me this far, and I’m not prepared to be dramatic about it.

The nurse ran through the standard questions, and I gave her honest answers, which felt like a small personal victory. At some point in your early-60s, you develop a reasonable ability to answer medical questions without editorializing.

Blood pressure: 122/68. I nearly fell out of the chair. When I give blood, which I do regularly and usually after at least one cup of coffee, that number climbs. This time I forgot the cuff was coming, which meant my body didn’t have time to manufacture anxiety about the reading. I’m holding onto this number like a trophy.

My doctor has a name that sounds like something you’d order at a tea shop, which I mean affectionately. He is good on the dialogue but a little lean on checking the reflexes. We had a brief negotiation about who was holding the microphone during my update, but we found a rhythm. He touched me exactly four times with the stethoscope. Four. I don’t know what number I was expecting, but it felt light for something called a physical.

I was hoping he’d look in my ears so I could mention my shower routine, but I suppose that joke keeps until next year.

Upstairs for the blood draw, which is where the morning got interesting.

The waiting room was full. The promo board cycling between health tips and marketing content included a note that visually impaired patients should swipe with three fingers on the check-in screen. I sat with that for a moment

A woman came in with a four-year-old and a seven-month-old. I’d guessed three on the older one, which she politely corrected. There was one open chair next to me and one across the room. I asked if she’d like me to move so she could have two together. The baby was still in that loading-personality-coming-soon phase, but watching the mom manage both kids with one hand free reminded me we were all young and exhausted once.

One woman checked in, glanced at the open seat next to me, and immediately chose to lean against the wall until a chair opened on the far side of the room. I took no offense. If I had to choose between sitting next to a guy who might start a conversation and leaning against a wall, I might avoid me too.

When my wife Judy was still waiting for her draw and I was heading out, I gave her a fist bump. “See you at home, dear.”

A few people smiled. One older woman held onto it a second longer than the rest. Maybe she had a husband she adored. Maybe she missed one. Either way, she smiled like the gesture meant something, and that was worth the empty stomach.

Monday, I’ll get the call about the results. Neither my doctor nor I is expecting anything alarming.

If I could write my own prescription, it would just say: daily laughter, refills unlimited. I’m pretty good at finding it. Family close, health stable, nothing urgent on the horizon.

Lucky doesn’t quite cover it, but it’s the closest word I’ve got.

The Washer That Tried Its Best

We are about to hit the two-week mark without a washer, and I want to be very clear: this is not a hardship narrative. Nobody needs to organize anything. We have children nearby who are more than happy to earn nonspecific parental approval points by letting us use their machines. We’ve already run three loads through our daughter’s washer, and she now leads the family leaderboard by a comfortable margin. She doesn’t know what the points are for, and we don’t know how she’ll cash them in, but somewhere there’s a spreadsheet that leans slightly in her favor.

The real story here is that our washer lasted as long as it did.

When the hockey boys arrived in the fall, the washer was—by all available evidence—normal. Quiet. Cooperative. Not auditioning for the role of bucking bronco at a cowboy bar. But somewhere along the way, it decided it wanted more out of life. A second act. And once it committed to that dream, it went all in on every single load. Jeans, towels, delicates—didn’t matter. If it went in, it came out after six rounds of thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.

Naturally, we blamed the hockey boys. “Those boys are trying to cram two loads into one,” we said, as if we were seasoned forensic laundry experts. It felt good to believe. It gave the chaos a villain.

We tried all the classic home remedies. Lean it forward. Drop it back. Hope gravity and optimism would realign the drum. I didn’t research any of this, of course. Judy probably talked to someone on the phone and then got ambushed by several reels on the subject—assuming she’d already burned through the videos of toddlers missing t-ball pitches and animals losing their minds over garden hoses.

We did warn the hockey boys about overloading. They nodded, then returned to their natural habitat: upstairs, headphones on, video games absorbing all earthly sound. They would drop a load in and disappear, completely insulated from the consequences. Meanwhile, if we forgot to close the laundry room door, it sounded like something had gotten in and wanted out badly. Six cycles of thump-thump-thump-thump-thump will make you question how many seconds you have left.

The more unsettling development was our own adaptation. When our son came over and heard it, he’d stare at us in genuine disbelief—two people sitting calmly on the couch, our only concession to the impending structural failure being a single, unhurried click up on the TV volume. The machine had become part of the family. Not a pleasant family member. More like the uncle who starts every holiday dinner with, “Now don’t get mad, but…”

By the time the season wound down, we knew. Post-hockey-boy life was going to include a new washer.

So for date night, we went to Home Depot. Chick-fil-A handled dinner. The appliance aisle handled the foreboding. Judy walked the lineup like a judge at a talent show, hoping for something that would at least surprise her. Instead: a lot of meh and buttons that seemed to require a minor in engineering. She was disappointed. I was, if I’m being honest, strangely relieved.

We made the decision that only people our age can make with a straight face: let the monster keep haunting its corner of the first floor as long as it was able.

We’re hoping for a repeat of the air fryer situation. We didn’t realize how dead the old one was until the new one showed up—and suddenly reheating a slice of pizza no longer took longer than ordering a fresh delivery. That was a genuine revelation. The bar for the new washer isn’t high: mostly we just want it to sound like an appliance and not an escape attempt.

The hockey boys will probably still find ways to provoke it next season, but we have the summer to recalibrate our noise expectations before we slide back into the familiar soundtrack of domestic chaos.

Now we just need the thing to actually arrive. Home Depot already pushed it back a week, and someone’s delicates are starting to form geological layers in the laundry basket. The text says Tuesday, 2–6 pm—which in delivery company language translates to “remain in your home and abandon all hope of making plans.”

We don’t do mountains of laundry around here. The cooking has scaled back, and the dishwasher spends most of its life wondering if it still has a purpose. The machines in this house are creeping toward semi-retirement, honestly.

At our age, you stop pretending everything is fine when something is clearly broken. You don’t make a fuss. You just sigh, adjust, and text your kids to see who’s home and whose washer is open for hosting. We’ve already built all the character we need. Now we’re mostly interested in functioning appliances.

I don’t call it lazy. I call it convenience-inclined.

Is that so wrong?