Tucson in the news and how I turned that into a day long fight with Bubs

As most of you know, we moved from our childhood hometown in Texas to Tucson, Arizona last year. For the most part, it’s starting to feel like home—and while I had my reservations at first, I’m actually starting to like it here.

One of the things I’ve come to appreciate most is how quiet it is.

Tucson is a very “normal” mid-sized American city of about a million people. We have all the same stores, all the same chain restaurants, mixed with a lot of local flair inspired by the Native American and Hispanic cultures that were here long before Tucson became a genuine Old West railroad town. (The O.K. Corral—the site of the most famous shootout—is less than an hour from our house in Tombstone.)

That was until this week.

Earlier this week, Today Show host Savannah Guthrie’s mother was reportedly kidnapped from her home on the north side of town. I tend to personalize stories like this anyway, but Savannah Guthrie has been something of a personal hero of mine since her reporting on the Sarah Palin campaign. A friend and I did a semester-long research project on Palin, and Savannah’s reporting was where we got a huge chunk of our information. Ever since she joined Today in 2012 or 2013, her voice has been the backdrop to our mornings while we get ready to take on the day.

So as you might imagine, I’ve watched every news story and read everything I can find about the kidnapping. I cried when Savannah and her brother and sister made a personal appeal to get their mom back. All I could think was: that could be us.

We were watching the story on Saturday morning when I said to Bubs, “Oh my god—if you were kidnapped at 84 years old, I would be devastated.”

What I wanted him to say was:
“Oh my love! I would think about our lifetime together and fight every day for your safe return.”

Of course—because even after 20 years, he still can’t read my mind—what he actually said was, “Dani, if I get kidnapped at 84 years old, let Abby handle it.”

So now I’m picturing ten-year-old Abby. I was like, “Abby??”

And he said, “Yes. She’ll be 63 and no doubt be as ruthless as she is now.”

It hadn’t even occurred to me that my babies will be in their sixties someday. That if he were kidnapped at 84, we’d have grandkids—maybe even great-grandkids. I said, “Ruthless?”

He said, “Yes. If I get kidnapped at 84, I want my family to stand in front of the news and say, ‘Our dad has lived a long and happy life, so do what you will with him—but you aren’t getting a goddamn dime from us.’”

That kind of floored me.

I said, “You wouldn’t want to come home?”

And of course—because he’s my Bubs—he launched into a long philosophical rant that he has clearly thought about: how our society forces life on the elderly instead of letting them die in peace (and apparently, in this hypothetical, there’s honor in telling kidnappers to get fucked and then not coming home). He talked about how every industry—from life insurance to medicine—will throw families into financial ruin to prolong life for six more months instead of letting people pass peacefully and preserve generational wealth.

I was like, who in the hell are you?
You realize when you took vows with me, we promised to live to the bitter end no matter the cost, right?

So of course I said, “Well, if you got kidnapped right now, you better believe I’d be on the news every day with the kids dressed in their best clothes, coaching them to say ‘bring my daddy home,’ while I play the part of the wailing wife.”

He meant it as a joke, but it landed with the thud of a boulder.
“Yeah—you’d love the attention.”

I said, “Okay, what would you do?”

Him: “I’d go to work.”

Me: “Bubs, what the fuck? If I were kidnapped, you’d go to work?”

Him: “Dani, if you were kidnapped, every law enforcement agency from the FBI to the Vail School Police would be looking for you. Every news outlet would want the story: ‘Gorgeous blonde mom disappears from bedroom community outside Tucson.’ If I got involved, I’d just be in the way—and our bills would still need to be paid.”

Meanwhile, in my head, I spiral. I’m imagining myself in a box, hearing kidnappers say, “The heat is way too high—let’s just bury her and go to Mexico,” while Bubs is at work and a reminder pops up on his iPhone: Call FBI to check in on Dani progress. He hits snooze and goes back to his calculations or whatever it is he does all day.

And then the fight was on.

And like I’ve said many times on this blog—when we fight, I don’t fight fair. Anything in our shared history is fair game. Oh, excuse me, sir—if you don’t see how Tamara Bowers having a crush on you in ninth grade is directly related to this argument, then maybe you don’t love me as much as I thought you did.

Then comes his retreat into:
“Dani, please—we were fine before you asked a question about a theoretical possibility that has less than a one-in-a-million chance of actually happening.”

Him being right does not make him any less of an ass.

And then, as always, he wanted a “break.”

We’ve had almost a year of therapy, and one of the biggest conclusions we’ve come to is that fights don’t have to be fought to the end. I still don’t really get it. Bubs said he couldn’t handle it anymore and went into work.

Last weekend was so chaotic with our families here for Abby’s birthday. I was really looking forward to a quiet Saturday with just my husband and kids, and that was ruined because I personalized a news story.

I’ve said this before, but I absolutely use AI to help with my blogs (don’t worry—I write everything first and only use it for editing). What I didn’t expect is that it would also become a kind of temporary therapist—helping me untangle what’s happening in my head while Bubs takes breaks during our fights. It lets my brain keep spinning, but with a dose of logic that doesn’t make me spiral further.

Yesterday, AI suggested I send him this text:

“I’m sorry about today. I wanted reassurance and play, and I went nuclear when I didn’t get it. I’m sorry for that. I still need you to know I was asking to feel chosen, not analyzed.”

Bubs texted back:
“WE are so stupid.”

I would have preferred “I was so stupid,” but he’s not wrong—we do tend to do dumb things to each other.

When he texted, I was on the way to Dairy Queen because I could not possibly think about dinner plans, and their chicken tenders are amazing. Bubs met us there, and everything was fine.

I even treated him to a butterscotch Dilly Bar.

Will we fight like this again? One hundred percent, yes.
But we’ll probably also end up at Dairy Queen afterward, eating chicken tenders and butterscotch Dilly Bars, reminding ourselves that even when we screw it up, we still choose each other.

And honestly, I can live with that.