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October 20, 2026 · 11:42 am

She Drives Me Crazy

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.

Food Fight

There are lots of areas in which my husband and I have a difference of opinion. I think we should be able to park our cars in our garage. He doesn’t particularly care if the cars are in there or not. He is of the opinion that every cardboard box we own should be squirreled away for another day. I think keeping just a few is plenty. I say “let,” while he says “leave.”

But when it comes to food, the differences are off the charts. Naturally, I think I represent the majority of opinion in every instance. So does he. Therein lies the rub.

For starters, I love tuna salad when it’s made with mayonnaise, regardless of the brand. He prefers mixing the tuna with Miracle Whip, which I can’t begin to tolerate. It’s far too sweet for my taste and doesn’t even smack of real food. When it comes to tuna, it’s all about a savory flavor in my mind. Throw in some celery and maybe a bit of diced hardboiled eggs or onion and you have something worth eating. I’ve even been known to add sliced Spanish olives for a nice briny tang. By contrast, he adds sweet pickle relish. I can’t even. So, to resolve this issue in our marriage, we make both kinds of tuna salad as a rule.

Speaking of tuna, my husband became ill after eating some tuna noodle casserole ONE time and has refused to eat it ever since then. Mind you, this happened over 50 YEARS AGO. You’d think after that much time had passed, you might be inclined to try the dish again, especially since you love all the ingredients. Nope. Turns out, he had a horrible bout of the flu that night and it had nothing whatsoever to do with the tuna casserole. But there’s no convincing him of that, even still.

What’s more, I like chili made with kidney or black beans (or both) while he prefers it without beans. Who does that? He loves pickled beets. I can’t stand them, although I do enjoy pickled red beet eggs. Go figure. I absolutely love ripe (black) and Spanish (green) olives while he positively abhors them. I’m sure it bothers him to no end when he sees me enjoying either the black or green variety by the fistful, so I try to get out of his sight when I do. In addition, we’ve gone round and round over the matter of apple dumplings. He thinks they’re a stand-alone meal. I think they qualify as a dessert.

Further, I won’t eat scrapple, nor do I trust anyone who does. In fact, the horrendous smell that wafts through the entire house when it’s cooking repulses me. By the same token, he refuses to eat broccoli or cauliflower and can’t stand the smell when they’re steaming hot. Nor does he trust anyone who would eat such a thing. I don’t even want to know where scrapple comes from. It’s like some sort of mystery meat that I don’t care to sample even though my husband lovingly offers me some each time he makes it. It’s only fair that I offer him broccoli or cauliflower.

Another area of dissimilarity involves the manner in which we consume spaghetti or linguini. I, of course, twirl a few noodles with my fork against a spoon or my plate, like a normal person—just like my friend, Theresa. He, on the other hand, CUTS THE PASTA like a madman. It’s almost criminal and it literally hurts my soul to witness this in person and hear his knife scraping against the plate.

In addition, the man eats Lebanon bologna slathered with peanut butter. In all honesty, I just don’t see those two flavors pairing in the same mouthful. I love them both, but would never put them together under any circumstance. That’s just insane.

When all is said and done, in our household at least, what I’ve described brings new meaning to the phrase, “food fight.”

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably arguing about food). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.