The Last Straw

I can’t tell you how many times my wife has told me that I took something too far. My jokes? Initially, fine, but then I push them over that imaginary line I can never gauge into what she considers the bad taste zone. My manscaping? Fine when it is out of sight, but last Valentine’s Day was too much for my wife.

I admit that I crossed the line. I should have stuck with the more traditional Cupid.

And my personal hygiene? Well, I have to admit that always crosses the line.

But I really thought I was helping this time. Especially after my wife thoughtlessly destroyed a valued vintage item in the sprawling Flanigan estate. I’ll explain.

My wife claims that she was just innocently sweeping with our vintage (maybe even collectible?) straw broom when she violently and recklessly broke off the handle. In her defense, she claims that the handle had literally rotted inside the broom. That’s her story? Really? Is that the best she can do?

Well, the best I could do is to trim off the rotted, I mean broken section, and use my Cub Scout knife from my youth to whittle a new end that I could shove into the other side of the broom and secure with a screw. I think it looks great and was well worth the several hours I devoted to the project.

Vintage gold! Sure, the handle is a bit shorter, so I have to bend a bit more, but osteporosis will have me stooped over eventually anyway. In return, my wife says I once again crossed the line. This time from frugal to downright cheap. I just don’t get it. Oh, and I also fixed our snow shovel.

 I had no idea my wife could roll her eyes so high.