How does one mix golf and a wife? Someone fill me in, please. Let me give you some background - I’ll tell you a story that’s as old as golf itself, but it just happened yesterday.

I’m the editor of GolfStyles Ohio, and our company hosted a Players Series tournament on July 29 at Longaberger Golf Club, one of the top public golf courses not only in the state but the nation. So I got up at 6 in the morning (and yes, of course, I was up late on Saturday night/Sunday morning) and drove the hour over to the course with my marketing partner and got 50 or so players out onto the course.

Then I spent the day either riding the course or waiting for players to finish or doing the scoreboard. I spent 12 hours outside in weather ranging from 90 degrees and the sun beating down to 80 degrees with 95 percent humidity.

By the time I left, my brain was a soft boiled egg. Normally, I don’t get tired, but yesterday, on the way home, I definitely was feeling worn out. I looked forward to a shower, some TV and bed.

When I got home, my lovely bride was on our back patio with two of her friends from the neighborhood. The kids were playing in the back yard, the women were having a big time and had decided to go out to a Mexican restaurant and were waiting for me to get home.

I was offered an out - to stay home by myself and forget dinner. But anyone who’s been married 10 years or more is smart enough to ignore that bait. I love my wife, but she’s no longer blushing and can be as salty as a sailor from the USS Indianapolis. So I washed my face and tried to switch gears.

At dinner, apparently I wasn’t gregarious, outgoing and engaging enough for my wife’s tastes. I was supposed to be entertaining the troops, I guess. Instead, the two boys were playing grabass with the nacho chips on the table so I told them to knock it off. “I knew you’d be in a bad mood,” my wife chirped. From then on, it was nasty looks and sarcasm. Great. A margarita didn’t really even make things better.

Next time, maybe I’ll just stay at home and see what happens. I mean, if you’re going to get bitched at no matter what, you might as well do what you want.

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