Like all good Americans, I’ve been looking for ways to use Elon Musk’s life tips in our home operations.

For instance, if the house is cluttered, tear it down and start over. And only keep people around who spark joy, or tremble at your feet.

So I instructed Dede to immediately cut our household expenses by 50%. This may have come as a surprise, since I have not been closely involved with home finances since the founding of our own domestic republic.

I await an official response directed to my newly formed Department of Homestuff — DOH! — but all I received was “Yeah, sure.”

Maybe she is not, along with many women, impressed by this new golden age of “masculine energy.” We both have strengths. She is better at numbers, facts and getting things done. I am better at writing memos.

But if Musk can tear into the federal government with no experience or clear legal authority, why can’t I do the same?

Musk/Trump signal a new day in America. Recently our Elon sent an email to federal employees ordering them to detail what work they’d done that week, or face termination. Makes sense, I guess. We always knew those park rangers were up to something.

And they say you can never have too many air traffic controllers, but let’s find out.

I wrote a similar memo for Dede, but since discretion is the better part of valor I left it in the draft folder. I know she quilts, knits, washes things, volunteers, balances our checkbook and makes most of our dinners, but she also reads a lot and watches certain TV programs.

I am pretty sure Team Musk would find inefficiencies, such as the occasional afternoon nap. I wouldn’t want to push the nap issue too hard, since I doze off myself. In fact, retirement napping has become an art form.

As for my own duties, I am lead officer in charge of garbage and recycling, and manager of the Plunger Response Team in case of toilet irregularities. I also lead the nightly survey of electricity usage and conduct the final security check. That is, I turn out the lights and lock the front door. I do not consider myself a hero; I’m just doing my job.

My other titles include Home Digital Officer, Shoveler of Snow, Thrower of Rock Salt, Feeder of Birds, Chaser of Squirrels, Lifter of Heavy Things and Retriever of Objects on High Shelves.

I also have the awesome burden of following world and national news here at Anxiety Central, sometimes working myself into such a state that I want to seize the Panama Canal, or the equivalent.

I can’t, like Elon, fire nuclear inspectors or technicians who run the power grid. That’s for the big dogs. But it’s goodbye to the annual furnace inspection, and no more wasteful doctor visits. I hate arriving 15 minutes early for appointments anyway. So inefficient and no miracle cures, like the swell potions I expect our new national health chief to promote. There’s one big savings after another!

And speaking of art forms, I am looking forward to Monday Night Wrestling broadcast live from the Kennedy Center. “The Celebrity Apprentice” retrospective should also be, as they say in French art circles, a doozy.

Another area where I cannot keep up with Elon is in fruitfulness. Dede and I have two children, but Papa Musk has 13 or so, thanks to collaborations with four different women. I’ve been happily married for 48 years to one. Even at that, I sometimes had my hands full with family life: bedtime reading to the kids, walking them to school, attending lacrosse and soccer games, driving them on college tours and even now lecturing them about saving for retirement.

But Musk is another being altogether, with a life as big as the sun — or a Death Star. Who knows how he does it? Maybe someday someone will explain it. Until then we remain in the dark.

Erratum

In a recent column I may have offended the gods. Classical slacker that I was in school, I mistakenly identified Jason as the seafarer of Greek legend who had himself bound to the mast so he could hear the song of the Sirens — and not be lured to his death. It was actually Odysseus, called Ulysses in Latin translations of his epic tale.

In ancient myths, such mistakes could have resulted in having to repeatedly roll a rock up Storrs Hill in Lebanon, having birds pluck out my eyes or being transformed into a pig.

Nowadays, Zeus might zap your cellphone and Hades would dispatch your number to the underworld. Or would Mighty Musk handle it for them?

Dan Mackie lives in West Lebanon. He can be reached at dan.mackie@yahoo.com.