Oh, the pains I suffer for love

FROM JASON’S ETERNAL MAN-IRE — I will premise this by saying that my wife is the smartest, most beautiful woman I have ever met. And that I am deeply afraid of her wrath.

As much as I love her, she does crazy things. They range from batty to full-fledged insane:

She buys pasta sauce based on how pretty the label is.

She will frequently grab the remote, insist on watching a certain show, and then proceed to drift out of the room 10 minutes later. But don’t try changing the channel. She’s still watching that dreadful interior design show on HGTV.

She bellows Britney Spears songs in the shower at 6 a.m.

Rather than use the phone to hold a comprehensive two-minute conversation, she’ll drag me into an hour-long texting fest. It’s not efficient.

She likes to deliver orders to me by talking to our dogs: “Macy, does Daddy know it’s his turn to clean the toilet?”

Her idea of good money management: Constant trips to Dairy Queen to spend $7 on ice cream cones instead of buying a half-gallon at the grocery store for $3.50.

If it isn’t HGTV, it’s a horrendous Bravo reality show. Or worse — The Style Network.

She makes up “cute” names for neighborhood animals, along with elaborate backstories: “That cat running through the field back there is named Mr. WhiteyPinks III. He is going on a trip to see his friend Rufus over at the brown house down the street for a tea party.”

Have you heard the Nannerpuss song? Because I have. On a loop. Since it started airing. Three months ago.

Two words: Speed walking.

“Cleaning” apparently means moving my papers, games, pens, and books into new, arbitrary piles where I can’t find them.

My primary function: bodyguard. Because in any public or private place, she believes she is in danger of being raped, no matter how many potential witnesses are nearby. That makes for a lot of protective trips by her side to the mall.

Putting clothing on animals is not amusing. Except to her.

Neighbors are not meant to be watched, but she keeps a vigilant eye on their every move. The comings and goings of each neighborhood car are carefully documented, as are the dates and times of various lawn-mowings up and down the street. And should a police car arrive at any house within sight, her body goes into spasms of voyeuristic curiosity.

There are pink curtains in my kitchen. Pink. Curtains.

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