Several years ago, I wrote the following column, which appeared in our local newspaper.  Headlined “Beware The Bored Games”, it warned spouses to tread lightly around the interactive games that had become a standard feature of suburban Saturday nights, and seemed to result in spouses wanting to politely kill each other in mixed company.

After it was published, I began to hear from friends who decided to ask their significant others the open question that I answered so poorly (and is still held over me to this day).  But since social media hadn’t taken off, I rarely heard about the results.  And I’ve always been curious how many husbands (and wives) might have fared better than I did.

So, this blog provides me a fresh opportunity.  Read this column, and then ask your significant other the central question that “The Newlywed Game” so kindly introduced into my marriage.  Post their response in the comments section below, as well as your reaction to it.   

Do you remember those first few years of your marriage? It was easy to stay entertained then.

You’d spend hours listening to each other’s stories, learning about your histories and ex-girlfriends and occasional lapses of sanity in college (“Wait, did you just say you once brushed your teeth with grain alcohol?”). You’d take long road trips without the radio on (gasp!), exchanging tales of bad family gatherings and athletic triumphs and how you once played “barber” with your 5-year-old sister and cut her hair down to the scalp with only a few strands left to make it “pretty” (sorry, Sharon, that one was kind of rough on you; but karma has its way of balancing things, as my balding dome makes perfectly clear).

There was so much to learn, so much to keep the conversation flowing and interesting. And yes, it seemed important to know that your Aunt Ethel was a hypochondriac, that you hate zucchini and opera music, and that you once appeared on an MTV game show and accidentally and noticeably spit when saying the word “Twinkies” (I will continue to deny this publicly until it shows up on YouTube).

And then …

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If you linked from Facebook to this post, allow me to apologize.  I’ve teased you into a digital shaming.  There will be no quiz that determines what character you most resemble from What’s Happening.  Rerun has not been chosen as my sitcom twin.  Neither will Raj, Dwyane Wayne, Mama, Dee or Shirley be chosen as my, or your, doppelgänger.  And for that, I’m grateful (and, frankly, a little relieved that I’m not Shirley).

If your feed is anything like mine, it’s amazing how quickly  Facebook  has been taken over by these “personality quizzes”.  It seems like over the last two months, I’ve learned everything from what city a good friend should have moved to after college, what celebrity boyfriend an ex-coworker should have been dating, what U.S. President a college buddy most resembles, and on and on and on.  I’ve clicked through a few of these, which purport to make crucial life definers out of a series of inane questions.  “Which of these cats looks most appealing to you” is somehow supposed to help lead the algorithm towards a declaration of the ’80s pop star I most resemble (Michael Jackson, if you’re curious).  Sure, they’re harmless fun, and a chance for most of the women I connect with to put images of Ryan Gosling on their Facebook timelines without their husband’s objection.  And I’ll cop to chuckling at the “What would John Travolta have called you at the Oscar’s” gag that went viral (for the record, I’m Marcel Whayte, which is actually a huge improvement on my real name. From now on, I’m Marcel Whayte, the one who knocks).

But I think I’ve reached the limit on my tolerance of these.  We’ve all had those friends who spent their first year on social media over-posting with mundane details about weather patterns and the funny thing their 3 year old said in the car and “wheels down at O’Hare” and how delicious that kale salad at Whole Foods was (and yes, the fact that I’ve been guilty of sharing all of these except anything remotely resembling kale worship does not escape me).  We’re now at the point of over saturation of quiz results, where hundreds of us continue to post test results that always somehow manage to declare that we deserve better than we have.  I should be living in Paris!  I should be working with Steven Spielberg!  I should be dating Kate Upton (pause for brief daydream and moment of silence)!  How about you?  I bet your quiz won’t be nearly as impressive! You should be exactly who you are.  But not me!  I should be a Navy Seal!!!

Well, I’m not a Navy Seal (this should not come as a surprise to any of you).  I don’t live in an exotic city filled with romantic idealists.  I think I passed an SI Swimsuit model on the street once, but it was cold and I didn’t stop to check.  And no, I’m not like Rerun on What’s Happening either.

I’d rather write slightly exaggerated posts about what actually happens in my life, for better or worse.  Sure, I’ll take the quizzes now and again, but I think I’ll spare all of you the details on what snack food I most resemble.  Even if I’m apparently as delicious as a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.

Maybe I am Shirley after all…

The parenting experience is always unique.  There is no one-size-fits-all baby prototype that runs like clockwork and hits its marks like a veteran actor.  There is no roadmap to where your kids are headed, no matter how many “What To Expect When They’re Expectorating” baby books and “He’s Not A Jerk, He’s Spirited” child-rearing manuals you memorize.  You’ve got to be flexible to survive as a parent, because you’re not traveling a shared road with other parents.      Your kid is unique, for better or for worse.

But there’s one universal truth that all parents face, and it’s a rough one.  It can be summarized with one word, three syllables that bring fear into young parent’s hearts and evoke shudders in those who’ve already faced its evils and lived to tell their survival stories.

That word is puberty.

Puberty turns your sweet and innocent child who loves her Mom, Dad and fluffy puppies into a belligerent antagonist who wears short skirts and black t-shirts and rolls their eyes when asked what time it is.  Puberty doesn’t like things that are fluffy.  Puberty replaces Mom and Dad with a cell phone and an Instagram account.

Or so they tell me.  Because despite my wife’s impeccable organization and insistence on timeliness in our lives, my kids are late to puberty.  And that’s fine by me.

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My thoughts exactly…

“All writers are vain, selfish and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery.”

– George Orwell

“Who are you calling vain and selfish?”

– Michael Wolfe

OK, maybe I’m a little selfish, and there’s nothing more vain in the digital age than starting another blog.  Except “selfies”, those are worse.  But as a writer (and maybe a few other things), I fly my lazy flags at full mast.

It’s an odd thing really.  I enjoy writing more than any productive leisure pursuit in my life.  I suck at golf.  I can’t play a musical instrument, unless it has an “i” in front of it (I can play an iPad and iPod like a virtuoso).  And in the kitchen, my specialties include mangling poultry and setting random appliances on fire.  But writing…I enjoy putting thoughts to paper, it comes fairly easily and I seem to be pretty good at it. I’ve written dozens of short, quippy essays that people have enjoyed over the years, some of which have been printed (by no less an esteemed literary journal than The Westport News…yes, I know, it’s impressive).  My annual holiday letter satire has a huge fan base, most of them proud members of the Jewish retirement community of southwestern Florida (thanks, Pop and Grammy Milbauer).  And after someone encounters one of my essays, I’m often asked a simple and direct question, for which I have no good answer: “Why don’t you write a book?”

After careful consideration, I think the reason is clear.  I’m inherently lazy.  I put enough effort into my job and my family that the thought of taking whatever free time I have left and sitting in front of a computer screen makes me a little queezy.  I lack commitment to the idea of writing a novel, and it seems like the short essay is where my level of energy is best suited.  And maybe there isn’t anything wrong with that.

So, this blog.  I’m making a few promises here, for myself really.  I’ve been writing a ton lately (in spurts, between binging on old episodes of Downton Abbey and House of Cards, and maybe The Bachelor but I’ll never admit it), and don’t really have anything to do with my pieces. My fragile ego won’t allow me to officially submit them anywhere.  So it seems that Too Lazy To Write A Book will be where I plan to publish whatever short pieces I’ve been working on.  I also hope to add some small thoughts, insights and recommendations from time to time.  If I’m feeling particularly motivated, I’ll start to structure some regular features so that I can make sure to update this on a more regular basis.  I’ve been down the blog road before, and it’s too easy to let it slip.  I’m hoping not to this time, but remember…lazy is the operative word, so best to keep expectations low.  But who knows, maybe I’ll surprise myself.  And maybe, just maybe, over the long haul, I’ll collect enough writing here to fill the pages of a book, and without all that messy “commitment”.

As for the “mystery” of my motives, they should be clear to anyone and everyone who reads what I write.  I’m a self-deprecating humorist who both celebrates and denigrates the travails of the modern, professional, suburban father.  If I’m at all decent in what I do here, you should laugh a little, groan a lot, and maybe even see yourself (or your wife, or your kids, or your bad eating habits) in some of my stories.

I only ask two favors:

1) Let me know what you think!  This lazy writer needs all of the motivation he can get.  As long as it’s positive.

2) If you like a piece, share it.  Post it on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, InstaFitter, MegaGram, and any other social media outlets you use to let everyone know about the clever stuff you come across online.  I’d be honored to worthy of your likes and links.

And we’re off!

Lazily Yours,

Michael