For a special treat, I thought it would be fun to invite Nancy to offer his input on this column. Wouldn’t you enjoy reading his perspective on all my typeset shenanigans?
Well, here’s how that scenario went down:
Before beginning, I presented him with a platter replete with his menagerie of prime “thinking foods.” That is, any cheese that shares the same color family as the Goldenrod crayon in the Crayola box, any meat product with globules of chewy fat pockets and four boxes of Mike and Ikes.
That should get the wheels greased.
“Hey,” I cajoled. “How would you like to help me write my column this week, doll?”
“You write a column?”
“Ha. Yes, Nancy, I do.”
“Well, I’m not helping you. Do you know how embarrassing it is when I visit a client and he says, ‘Hey, how they hanging today, Nancy?’”
“Sorry. (Not sorry). OK, I’ll stop calling you Nancy.”
( Today he will be Nancy/Anthony = Nanthony!)
“OK, Nance — I mean Anthony — tell me, are you proud of me for writing a column that makes most, um, some, people laugh?”
“Proud? Is this a trick question? Like when my boss asked me to describe you and I said ‘plain’ and you didn’t talk to me for three weeks? Because I’m not playing again.”
“Donuts are plain. M&Ms are plain. Your wife is not plain.”
“Well, you did just buy underwear at CVS, so —”
“Shut it. I had a coupon. Anyway, this column is supposed to be about you, Nanthony.”
“OK well, I’ll tell you one thing I don’t enjoy. You always make me sound like a big, fat baby and I’m not. Am not!”
“Why are you holding your back and clutching that jumbo-sized vat of Aleve, then?”
Is he crazy? That’s just more fodder for me! You think he would learn to zip it when I am at this computer. Silly, silly man.
“So tell the readers what else you would like them to know about you. You have the floor.”
Sigh. I lost him. Apparently, the groin pull was conveniently imaginary because it’s 60 degrees outside today and I hear the clinking of clubs. Does Fox Hill, like, never close? This should be good. He just took three of my best Aleve PMs by mistake. And I didn’t stop him.
I have to say, many male readers tell me they wouldn’t enjoy their wife writing about them in such an honest/derogatory fashion. And I say to them what I say to my kids: “If you don’t want other people to know about it, then don’t do it.”
In my kids’ case, it’s teenage boldness and borderline citation silliness, but in Nanthony’s case, it’s just stupid husband stuff. He can’t help it. But even if he could, he wouldn’t.
We’re way past that stage. That’s why when he passes gas or whines about a cold or has hernia surgery, I have to report it.
If 2016 is the year of the Kidney Stone, we will both not make it out alive.
I don’t know, maybe I’m still retaliating for that “plain” comment from so many years ago. Maybe that’s why I get pleasure out of torturing him via Times New Roman on this page every few weeks.
Whatever. I just know it’s fun.
“Any last words, Nanthony?”
“Yes. I want to let your readers know that — hey — is that salami and generic cheddar cheese? Outstanding!”
The buck could have stopped there. But the buck stopped in the kitchen, instead, grazing on a greasy plate of meat and Mike and Ikes and ignoring his plain, old wife.
Silly, silly Nanthony.