DT

President Trump is right, although I didn't know he made a trip to Nassau County, New York and met my wife, because I've come to conclude I'm living with a domestic terrorist.

It wasn't always his way. Perhaps it's the work-form-home syndrome that's set in rather than the nearly 45 years of  marriage that have come to affect her cerebral cortex, because believe me, she's become a little crazy.

The house is sufficiently large enough and empty of offspring that even with her being in the 25th week of working from home, we barely collide during the day. I'm in my 10th year of retirement, so up to now haven't been spending much time together during daylight hours other than on weekends.

She's been going to work and taking part in all that entails: water cooler chatter, break room gossip, and cake for co-workers' birthdays. I get it. Staying home is dull, and it has to be affecting her nervous system.

How else do you explain the sudden expulsion from the downstairs medicine chest items of mine that are health related. "They get in between my lotions." They've been cast aside to the adjoining counter top, like a crazy ex-girlfriend who has dumped her boyfriend's clothes, bike and bowling ball on the sidewalk. My preferred cold remedies have been evicted.

Okay, granted the Daytime and Nighttime bottles of the generic NyQuil are a little large, but hey, considering unit pricing, they were a steal, especially with my Bonus Bucks coupon from CVS. And with a little re-arranging, I made them fit.

It was obviously the "little re-arranging" that did it. I strayed into North Korean airspace in what is basically a large medicine chest, certainly large enough for a geriatric couple to comfortably
co-exist with their life sustaining medicines, potions and lotions.

My own little corner of this penthouse of space did expand a little due to the addition of four safety cap canisters with tiny print of prescription medicine that were added to the already small variety in place. A recent health event has necessitated taking up a little more space. I'm not being denied that space. I must still be loved.

But suddenly, even the variety of band-aids has came under scrutiny. I ask you, if a finger is pricked, am I the only who bleeds?

The medicine chest dispute won't however require third-party arbitration, and certainly won't require taking any Millennial advice from the NYT on how to survive the pandemic.

Forty-five years of marriage have taught us how to survive each other in all conditions. Negotiations are underway.

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