This is my survival story.
[This is an edited re-post from a prior Substack post on August 8, 2025.]
As I draft this on Tuesday, this past few days have been a bevy of “firsts” for me. The reason I put fake air quotes—in other words… quotes—around “first” is because two of these things may as well be.
See, the CFO (yesterday (as you read this) she became my bride of 32 years) has trained herself not to show disappointment with the year-after-year reminders that she foolishly married the world’s worst gift-giver. And not even just gifts. I’m talking things like going on dates, spontaneous affection, etc… Never been my strong suit.
Now, in fairness to moi, she hasn’t been blanked all those years. (She got an old timey train ride for her birthday last month!) But it’s kind of like the old Jeff Foxworthy joke about house cleaning, where wives aren’t nearly as proud of the 99% as husbands are of their 1%. There have been some sudden dates and surprisingly thoughtful gifts. But it matters not that I thought to buy some silver-based gifts for Anniversary #25 seven years ago. What will always spring to her mind when the opportunity to “one up” some other married person complaining about how unthoughtful their spouse is, is the following short story.
We were typically poor as newlyweds in our young 20s. (As opposed to un-typically poor as oldie-weds in our 50s.) We needed… stuff, back then. Real things. For our first anniversary, she was NOT happy to receive a new phone for the house and a cheap set of starter luggage. That was my first lesson (aside from not paying attention countless times to my father as he repeated the same mistake) in the art of buying “personal” gifts, not “practical gifts.”
I do believe that making a wisecrack in the moment was the bigger fool’s errand, though. “The phone and luggage are so you can go to your mother’s and call me when you get there!” 🤣 Mt. Vesuvius… 🌋 And here are a few more emojis to explain her reaction. ♀ 🦵🏼 my 🫏
So with beaming pride this past Saturday, I gave her the coming anniversary present early, for the legitimate reason that I thought she might just be shopping for one herself. It is a lovely, flowery acrylic nameplate for her desk for her coming first day at her new job. I received not one but two smooches, so me thinks I chose well.
And though our “date” wasn’t a surprise, I suppose even dates planned ahead of time by a recluse like me can be considered as such. I work from home, now, and there are honestly times I don’t leave this property for many days, sometimes up to two weeks. And while I’m admittedly an introvert, which most of y’all refer to as “party pooper,” my lack of social interaction comes down to a few logical factors: we are thrifty on our budget (less going to town saves a lot of money on impulse buying and fuel); my day is usually booked with chores, work, marketing, trying to keep up with the evolving business game, etc.; and people suck.
That last one may be a bit more subjective than logical.
But on Saturday afternoon, we went to a nice waterfront shop in the far southeast part of the county, where one famous local author (Gregg Olsen) was hosting another famous local author (D.D. Black) for a speaking engagement. I’ve never been to one of those, either as a reader or a writer. Gregg setup the first ever West Sound Crime Con, over several days and several locations, so he introduced D.D. and then beat feet to the next thing.
 |
Now, a pair of Dorothy’s acquaintances knew who I was, so there was a bit of talk about my author business while in line. But once seated, I carried on casual conversations about D.D.’s thrillers with those seated around me. The day was about him, after all. It was great research, as I plan on writing a grittier version of what he does when I start penning in my own name after I finish Blades of Grass. I may have to re-think that. I am, as previously noted, “old poor” (like the meme about the losers in “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia”) but it doesn’t mean I want to stay that way. The average age of D.D.’s readers is, by my scientific estimate, 113.7. The average gender is female, and yes, I assumed most of it. And perhaps 113.7 may not be very accurate, but the lesson is there between the wrinkles and the Oil of Olay scent—he has built up a very dedicated (and large) reader-base amongst people drawing pensions; and many of them may not prefer “gritty.” I will still write how I best write, of course, but it does give me food for thought.
Back to the date. My wife is always simply happy when I leave the property, which is usually accompanied by the ripping sound of my hermit crab shell popping off about a half-mile down the road. The venue was magnificent, as were the weather and the rural drive. And we stopped in the main city in the south end to hit a restaurant we like, but hardly ever make it to.
 |
Yesterday, as you’re reading this, we will have gone to Seattle and back to watch a Major League Baseball game on our anniversary. The Seattle Tech Billionaires are hosting the Chicago Union Thugs. It should be quite a show down. I’ll be writing about that next week. After all, I’m starting to show some real growth—and I’m NOT referring to that thing hanging over my belt in the photo. (Bear with me on that topic; I’m on day 🤬 of strict carb restricting, and I expect the cravings to pass any decade now.)
But seriously, back in 2020 I had made a 98% serious determination that I would never go to Seattle again. (I can’t trust a city that allows bullies to establish their own country for several weeks, but did nothing when the gentleman got killed in it.) But those dang Seattle Mariners! 😡 I don’t have sports-ball cable TV, but I started watching the daily MLB recaps on YouTube, and now I want to participate in America’s pastime again! DRAT! I’ve gone to two minor-league games this year, one on each coast.
If I’m not careful, this leaving the property thing could become habit forming.
