Tony's Magic Math

Anyone who knows my husband knows he's a pretty intense guy. People who used to work for him always joke about the shouting, the bouts of selective deafness when he's focused on a task important to him and his unfailing ability to focus solely on one goal to the detriment of all others.

They should be married to him.

In fact, he's interrupted me 15 times while I was writing that sentence to send emails that are important to him but that I don't give a crap about. Even though he has a working email account and the ability to type.

Tony's favorite pastime when we're driving is forcing me to do mental math. Now, I was a journalism major in my undergrad. That should explain everything you need to know about my mathematical abilities when a calculator is not present. (Before the mathematicians get all up in arms about that last statement, thinking that I'm taking the easy, wimpy way out, read my writing and tell me if you would focus on math with a mind-blowing talent like I have. Well, sure you would, but it would take a lot more effort than just vomiting out your thoughts on paper or a screen. I've never said I was ambitious.)

It works like this: Tony will be driving along (He always drives because he's convinced I'm trying to kill him every time I get behind the wheel. He's right.) and out of nowhere, usually while I'm in the middle of a sentence, he'll say, "What's 6 times 7?" I'll give him the answer, usually wrong the first two times and then correct after I've done some serious thought and a few, smaller multiplications in my head (if 7 times 3 is 21, then 7 times 6 must be twice that, yep 42.).

But it doesn't end there. He'll continue.

"Okay, then plus 136?"

"Ummmm 175. 166. 179. No, 178."

"Okay, plus 215?"

"Jeeezus! Okay, um, 451." (It literally took me two minutes to do that just now and I'm LOOKING AT ALL THE NUMBERS. Imagine how stressful this is when I'm flying blind and carsick.)

"Alright, and 122."

Sigh. "537."

"Okay, that's how much money we'll have left in the checking account 20 years from now if we never earn another penny and we average 6% return each year."

"What the hell are you talking about? Where did you get these numbers? What numbers were you possibly using? How do you expect me to believe that when I've just multiplied and added up a random string of bullcrap that you just pulled out of your giant domey head?"

And so forth. Our car trips often end in punching matches, with me trying to gouge out one of his eyes, and him trying to keep the car on the road. Or at least as close to the road as it ever is when he's driving.

You see, Tony is a numbers guy. Nothing gives him more pleasure than "running the numbers," no matter how fictional or approximate or crazy they are. I dubbed this unique study of budgets, pricing and returns "Tony's Magic Math" some years ago and the name stuck. I know that at least once a day, he's going to come up with some cockamamie formula for our budget or our spending, or our investments and subject me to the task of adding it all up for him IN MY HEAD until he's satisfied.

Why in my head? Because he ambushes me when there is no calculator present. In the shower, when we are falling asleep at night, when I'm sick as a dog in the car, while we're out for our evening constitutional. Wait a minute! These are also places where I'm trapped and can't get away from him. He's a cunning bastard, that's for sure.

Well, gotta run. Tony needs me to figure out his waist-to-hip ratio so he can figure out what he'll weigh in 40 years.