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Text Messages

These are the text messages that I recently sent to my wife Rachelle:


Me: No, I haven’t heard back from Nancy.

Me: Well, I can’t think of any reason why she wouldn’t want to do it. It’s an awesome idea!

Me: She owns a cheese shop, so me setting up a grilled cheese booth in there is a no-brainer!

Me: It’s win/win, baby!

Me: Well, I thought I’d pick up one of those Instant Pot things and cook them in there.

Me: Oh.

Me: Really?

Me: The Instant Pot can’t make grilled cheese sandwiches?

Me: Why isn’t that on their advertising?

Me: Well, that sucks.

Me: Thought it could do practically everything.

Me: Yeah, I guess I did kind of imagine it like a robot.

Me: No, not like that.

Me: A benevolent robot, one that serves man, AND is capable of making a grilled cheese sandwich.

Me: Well, if it can’t make a damn sandwich, why the hell was it named Time Magazine’s Person of the year??

Me: Oh, I thought it was.

Me: The Silence Breakers were?

Me: I don’t know who they are.

Me: Oh.

Me: Yes, they are very brave women. #TimesUp

Me: I am an ally.

Me: Look, we’ve been through this before.

Me: Feminism is many things, many voices–and my collection of vintage Raquel Welch memorabilia doesn’t make me a “Bad Feminist.”


Me: It makes me an ally.

Me: No, not a creep, an ally.

Me: Well, let me tell you, I’d be delighted if she exploited me back.

Me: I really would.

Me: Oh, don’t act so innocent!

Me: You know you want to be exploited by Colin Farrell.

Me: I saw how many times you watched that Miami Vice movie, and I saw the way your eyes got all weird and intense whenever that greasy Crockett came on screen!

Me: I can’t believe you just wrote that!

Me: You’ve stopped going to your low carb support group, haven’t you?

Me: You were very high in agreeability when you were eating carbs.

Me: Now, not so much.

Me: The Rachelle Maynard I know (and love!) would never have said something like that to me if she was properly managing her carb withdrawal.

Me: Yes.

Me: Yes.

Me: I can see that now.

Me: I am sorry.

Me: I love you way more than I could ever love Raquel Welch.

Me: If I had a poster of you, I’d put it up over the fireplace. I’d wallpaper the entire apartment in you if I could!

Me: No, not like a serial killer.

Me: Like I’m your Crockett and you’re my Tubbs.

Me: We mustn’t let Trump divide us, my love.

Me: It’s what he wants.

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