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My Marriage and TayTay

 My husband is in love with Taylor Swift.


"Some tickets," he says, "are around $20,000. The Maplewood Moms, in my Facebook group...They're all fuming."

I cluck--in sympathy, I guess? Taylor seems to be a source of diminishing returns for me. I listen to "Anti-Hero," but I don't know what she is talking about when she claims to dream about her own funeral, and about the in-laws who don't exist. I'm lost in that part.

News arrives from Western New York: My brother has spent twelve hours on a dysfunctional TayTay site, attempting to buy seats for his teen daughter. This makes me think of "Little House on the Prairie," when tales of winter hardship are traded around the campfire. "Uncle Jethro saw a bobcat when he was out hauling logs...."

My District-of-Columbia niece shudders as she recalls her own Taylor ticket odyssey. "I hired a deputy to monitor the vendors' website, because I needed to attend meetings all day. But when my helper actually penetrated the site, after several hours, he realized you need various text messages and tier-two security codes to reach the inner sanctum. So I had to abandon my year-end review session. I was running back to the hotel room; the clock was ticking. It was like Tom Cruise...Mission: Impossible...."

I'll sit this one out. On Netflix, you have nine free additional hours of "Unsolved Mysteries." You can remain in your pajamas; UFOs pop up; a murderess rides off into the sunset, and no one sees her post-homicide. This is my private "Christmas Tree Farm." To each his own.
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