Telling hubby to ‘curb your enthusiasm’

I am a do-it-by-the-book woman and I wear logic like a body-hugging Playtex girdle.
I plan, I read the instructions, I play it safe, I like to spend time alone, and I almost always know where everything is around here.
A few days ago, when I had nothing better to do, I took to the Internet and “Googled” myself.
According to, I really do know Beth pretty well.
It would appear that I am an introverted, intuitive, thinker, judger—or “INTJ” for short.
I think first (sometimes for days) then act, focus on one thing at a time, trust my gut, and think about future implications.
I am convinced by rational arguments, prefer to finish projects, and find comfort in schedules.
When I review the profile again, I am struck with the real possibility that my character is rather monotonous and stuck up.
I suppose that’s why the Universe teamed me up with Pete, who has the fearless, adventure-driven, all-over-the-place essence of “Yukon Cornelius” from the movie classic “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”
So, when all work and no play makes Beth a dull girl, life sends her husband home to muss up her hair, make absurd spontaneous decisions that involve money, stir the pot by using my tools and then not return them to their original location, and make our neck of the woods an unpredictable land mine series of events.
He’s generally home for a week, with the first seven days being an adjustment reaction period.
Sure, we have oodles in common—the least of which include the fact that we share the same inseam measurement, enjoy tea and chocolate, and dig “Alien” movies.
We love pigging out on ice-cream and doughnuts (though not at the same time), share an affinity for the color green, and love technology.
However, there are times when still–after 10 years of happy marriage–I am confounded by and shake my head at the remarkable and magnificent case we make for the law of attraction between persistent opposites.
According to Pete is an enthusiastic, playful extravert and a non-conformist who questions the need for rules and is disorganized.
That’s why I check all of his jean pockets when I do the laundry. While I often fail to notice the Kleenex ball until it appears in a million pieces in the bottom of the washing machine, I never miss the handful of loose change.
Until Pete gets to about here while reading this, little did he know that a recent rummage netted me ten bucks.
However, such giveaways are but a drop in the bucket of debt that remains unpaid by the Household Corporation to the multi-skilled phenomena that is housewife.
And because I suspect this unpaid compensation package will remain in the unwritten rules of no fee for service that comes with marriage, I will continue to rake in the coffee money.
Pete’s personality also rewards him with a high creativity level. Anyone who remembers what the inside of my grandfather’s barn used to look like, would take one look at it today and concur that only a man of great imagination could have accomplished what Pete has done in there.
But the bucks for the barn stop short at the stripper pole.
“A stripper pole?” I said, in slow motion, lowering my head so that Pete could see the future implications of the horns growing out of my skull.
Time stood still for the once bitten twice shy; you’re in deep “doo-doo” moment.
Did he not remember that three years ago at another home we owned, Beth had bravely stepped out of her safe zone and suggested to her spontaneous husband that he build her a stripper pole. Beth was going to take lessons and spice up the atmosphere in the bedroom.
One little giggle at the notion from the man of the house and I’d packed that idea in an iron chest, clad it with 14 padlocks and threw it and the keys into the deepest part of the ocean.
Now all of a sudden, my adventure-driven husband thinks a stripper pole would be cool?
“You’ll have to find somebody else to use that thing because I’m not going to,” I snorted, drudging up muddy waters and the universal red flag end-of-conversation signal of arms crossed.
”Would you repeat that,” Pete quipped, bouncing about like a slinky.
“Could I have that in writing?” he added.
“Curb your enthusiasm,” I scowled, before Pete’s smarty pants laughter caught me up too.
Yet, little did he know.
The late Marlene Dietrich said, “Once a woman has forgiven her man, she must not reheat his sins for breakfast.”
I agree.
But sometimes I burn his bacon.

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