It’s started again.
I first noticed it had started again when my wife and our 24-year-old daughter Emma began talking quietly in the other room.
I was in the living room watching some sporting event and my wife and Emma were in our dining room and I overheard the following conversation.
Wife: Why not?
Emma: It’s hideous.
Wife: What about this?
Then I heard my wife say something about needing to get a tape measure and I was pretty sure-once again-it had started.
By the way, I’m secure enough to admit that I had to check to see if the correct term was tape measure or tape measurer. As it turns out it’s tape measure which sort of makes sense because you’re actually not measuring tape when you use a tape measure. But then I started wondering what would you use to measure tape? Would you use a tape measure or a tape measurer? Then I remembered there was a story about the Major League Baseball lockout in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch I forgot to read and…well…the next thing I knew it was time for bed.
Wait. Where was I?
After my wife got the tape measure and, presumably, finished measuring, she came into the living room to tell me she needed to use my computer.
My wife is always having to use my computer even though her computer is in the same room as mine. When I ask my wife why she always has to use my computer she says there is something wrong with hers but she never tells me exactly is wrong with it.
I suspect the problem is the same problem my wife had with her cellphone a few years ago. Every time my wife wanted to take a picture on her cellphone she would say, “I need to borrow your phone to take this picture.”
Later I discovered the reason my wife needed to use my cellphone to take pictures was because her cellphone was-to use a technical expression- full of crap.
So I suspect her computer is likewise-to again use a technical expression- full of crap.
I suppose at some point I should have asked my wife and Emma what they were up to but I was pretty sure I knew and I didn’t want to have to listen to them telling me what it was they were up to.
It’s part of my, “If I don’t ask maybe they won’t tell” strategy.
Of course my, “If I don’t ask maybe they won’t tell” strategy never works so after about 30 minutes my wife came back into the living room.
Wife: Do you want to know what Emma and I are doing?
Wife: Why not?
Me: Do you want to know what the score is in this game?
Wife: Good Lord, no.
Me: I rest my case.
Then my wife said, “We’re going to redo the dining room.”
Then I said, “OK.”
Then my wife said, “Do you want to know what we have in min…”
“No,” I said.
Here’s the deal. My wife and Emma don’t really care what I think about their plans for our dining room. They don’t care what I think about their plans for the dining room for two reasons.
Reason No. 1: They know I don’t care about their plans for the dining room.
Reason No. B: They think I have terrible taste.
It’s possible the reason my wife and Emma think I have terrible taste is because-follow me here-I have terrible taste.
As far as I’m concerned it’s OK to have terrible taste. I sometimes think good taste is overrated. I mean which would you rather have good taste or the ability to hit a curve ball?
Now despite the fact my wife has known about my terrible taste for more than 30 years she continues to have conversations like this with me.
Wife: Which pair of shoes to you like better? The blue or the black
Me: I don’t care.
Wife: No seriously which pair should I wear? The blue pair or the black pair?
Me: I don’t care.
Wife: PICK ONE DAMN IT!
Me: The blue pair.
Wife: Really? Not the black pair?
Me: (REALLY BAD WORD) ME!
A few days later, while my wife was at work, three medium sized boxes showed up on our porch. I brought the boxes inside and called my wife.
“Good,” my wife said. “Those are the new dining room chairs.
“Ok,” I said.
“Don’t you want to know what they look like?” my wife said.
“Does it matter?” I said.
“Not really,” my wife said.
“Well, there you go,” I said.
So tomorrow my wife and I will spend part of the day assembling the new dining room chairs. Then we’ll take the old dining room chairs to…well I’m not sure where we’re taking them, I just know I have to get them into my car. The rest of the chair information is apparently on a need-to-know basis and from what I gather I don’t need to know. And I’m OK with that.
Do you want to know why I’m OK with that?
Because I don’t care. And I have terrible taste.
Now if I could only get someone to throw me a curve ball.