It’s been rumored that I drive my husband crazy—in all the wrong ways. Of course, he is more than willing to point out my shortcomings, even if he had to convince me to mention them here, in print. Turnabout is fair play, I suppose.
For starters, I try (and usually fail) to persuade him to eat more vegetables each day. It’s almost as if he has some sort of personal vendetta against food that is primarily green. It’s nothing new. He’s been that way for as long as I’ve known him. “How about some peas? Green beans? An artichoke maybe?”
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s a big “nope” from him much of the time, or “Why would I want to eat something that’s trying to STAB me!?” So, I’m fairly astonished on the rare occasions where he agrees to have a something veggie-ish. Either way, he views my persistent coaxing as he would an irritating rash—something decidedly annoying that may or may not go away in time.
As long as I’m addressing the issue of health, it’s fair to say that I am unrelenting in my suggestions that we go for a walk together—especially now, since the weather is beautiful. It’s usually sunny, low humidity and it doesn’t feel like we’re a mile from the sun. Although, I must admit, it’s my husband’s least favorite season, with all the leaves changing and cooler temperatures. As he likes to say, “Everything is DYING. Why would anybody like that?” At any rate, I’m quite sure he’s less than pleased when I suggest we go for a stroll.
Then there are all the times I imply that we should do some odd jobs around the house, like decorate for Halloween—and he agrees. However, it seems that we’re never in agreement when it comes to when we’re motivated to do the jobs. He’s a morning person, while I detest mornings. I much prefer to tackle work of any sort in the afternoon, after I’ve had my caffeine. It’s true: Take two people who are opposite in almost every way, and invariably, they marry each other.
Apparently, I am also an overachiever when it comes to asking mindless questions—a trait that my spouse considers to be the height of exasperation. He even has a name for me related to my special talents in that arena—the Question Queen. But I’ve got news for him; I’m not insulted by it. Instead, I’ve embraced the title and try to pepper him with even more questions than he thought humanly possible. He’s remarked on more than one occasion that he’s tried to anticipate which particular questions I’ll fire in his direction upon his return from being out, and, of course, the first three are ones he never imagined. Touché.
What’s more, I have a habit of plucking his gnarly ear hairs or an eyebrow hair gone rogue with far more glee than is deserved. Admittedly, I do find joy in ridding him of unruly and unwanted hairs near his face. Pain just happens to be a byproduct. I’m also guilty of pestering him to remove the unsightly piles of papers on our kitchen island—the ones he can’t bear to trash or move somewhere out of sight. I confess that said pestering is off the charts, but someone has to do it.
But what drives him absolutely berserk is something I’ll admit is a terrible habit of mine—I don’t listen to the details of what he says. I get the gist of his commentary, but fail to come away with any meaningful specifics that might contribute to a deeper understanding of what he’s expressing at any given moment. I usually chalk it up to being glued to my phone, my computer or whatever playoff game happens to be airing at the time. It’s true—I don’t always attend to what is being said. What can I say—I’m easily distracted. As a result, he’s relegated to repeat a ridiculous number of utterances—well, his half of them anyway, which can lead to madness, I’m told.
On a related note, we both get aggravated because we knowingly choose to hold entire conversations when we’re halfway across the house from each other, shouting into the void in the hopes that our message will be received. Mind you, we don’t move closer to one another; we just shout louder, repeating the insanity that’s wrapped in denial.
Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably driving my husband crazy). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.
Copyright 2026 Melinda L. Wentzel
