Hi there! I understand you're the husband of E.L. James, who has enjoyed a bit of success recently. Congratulations!
As far as being married to a weird lady who writes about over-the-top romantic/sexual things you can't relate to, I feel your pain, bro.
My wife, much like yours, has been making a living most of her life by writing. She'd spend all day at the office writing, then come home and spend more hours writing her wild and wacky stories.
Granted, she didn't start out by writing on a site famous (or infamous, as the case may be) for strange, brain-bending tales of James T. Kirk turning gay for his pointy-eared alien science officer Spock.
Or more recently, perverted narratives written by creepy men based on a cartoon series about hyper-colorful little pony toys for little girls.
No, Ms. I-Love-Ducks actually tried writing and publishing romance novels the normal way - as normal as she could get anyways.
But otherwise, I feel your pain, bro.
Except that you were also a writer, whereas I am a computer guy. I spent over 20 years trying to chew words down as far as possible to make machines understand them, and to chop down every nebulous possibility to a yes or a no, on or off, 1 or 0. And my wife, to complicate things, is a lawyer. One of the few professions that takes those same situations that I worked so hard at whittling down to binary terms and obfuscates them to the point where even the smartest people become drooling idiots trying to understand them.
I don't have to worry about that sort of thing since 2008, though. That was when I became a screwdriver monkey and my life became even simpler than before.
You however, Mr. Fifty Shades, had a writing career in TV - in Britain, no less. Oh sure, you complain about your work being mangled to the point of being unrecognizable, but at least you hadn't been put out of work by the shenanigans of young New Jersey beach bums, bored catty surgically-enhanced housewives, or Gordon Ramsey, so you had that much going for you.
But otherwise, I feel your pain, bro.
Except that part about helping out your wife by leaving her alone. See, I'd love to do that, but because of my computer talents and my graphic design no-so-talents, I have to shove my heterosexuality to the side ever so often to look for sufficiently sexy man-abdomen to adorn my wife's book covers. And do whatever she wants done on the website (which may or may not involve putting ducks everywhere). And troubleshoot whatever problem may be happening with her laptop and the home network, including trying to extract from her a phrase or sentence IN PLAIN ENGLISH about what is going wrong.
(Sometimes, when I feel particularly vindictive about corporate outsourcing, I let her call Bob Ramalamadingdong in Techcallistan instead of fixing her problem right away. Her inability to express herself in binary terms is a lovely vengeance to unleash upon offshore tech support.)
But other than that, I feel your pain, bro.
Especially when you were talking about having run-down kitchen appliances and old vehicles. Mary Anne and I had appliances that were falling apart. They were around 30 years old, after all... far beyond the point that the companies that manufactured them had set for their obsolescence. And both of our cars have surpassed the 10 year mark. Mine alone has gone through a transmission and numerous electrical components. I once joked that the only original pieces of equipment in my minivan are the tires and oil. It's not far from the truth.
So when you said the door on your old oven fell off, I could definitely say I feel your pain, bro.
Then I learned you had replaced your old Honda with a shiny new Volkswagen using your wife's book earnings, and that your net worth is around 15 million dollars.
Now I say screw you, I don't feel shit, you limey bastard.