Reality, according to him

It is always a good idea, as a couple, to do a little reality check once in a while -- say, every 3 years or so. This responsibility will primarily fall to the wife, because the typical husband often lives in a Different Reality, one somewhat removed from Actual Reality.

The husband, for instance, may think things are humming along quite smoothly in The Household. He takes care of his immediate needs -- shaving, and all that -- and he is vaguely aware that other things in the household get done. How, he is not always sure. Perhaps, like for the comic strip cat Bucky, there exists in his household a magic cupboard that automatically restocks itself. And a magic closet that refills itself with clean clothes. Yes, life is good.

This is where those reality checks come in. SOMEONE must remind him that there is no magic cupboard, and that the clothes do not wash and dry and fold themselves. And that SOMEONE would like a little appreciation shown for this once in a while.

Generally the husband is only too happy to express his appreciation. His method of expression, however, may not be in keeping with Actual Reality.

The husband's thoughts will naturally tend toward the type of appreciation he would like to receive. Believing that his wife, as his other half, would feel the same, he offers her the best thank-you he can possibly imagine, and he offers it almost reverently:

"Can I make a trophy for you, for BEST WIFE IN THE WORLD?"

He is envisioning past days of glory, when boys he knew with trophies were heralded and envied, and he imagines how proud and excited his wife must be at the thought of receiving such a coveted --

But his wife is shaking her head. "No," she says. "I'd just have to dust it. I'd rather you make me a sandwich for my lunch once in a while. Oh, and let me have the parking spot more often."

He is dumbfounded. This does not make any sense. He offers her Shangri-La, and she wants...salami.

"You...don't want a trophy?" he says haltingly.

"No," she repeats, more emphatically.

He is silent for a moment. Slowly, he begins to realize that his wife inhabits a reality far different from his own. If she does not swoon at the thought of receiving a trophy, he must try another tack.

"Then, can I have a trophy?" he says. And is further mystified when the sandwich his wife had been making makes sudden contact with his person. She mutters something about a parking spot. He decides to retreat before she can express her displeasure with her car.

He files this away with other little tidbits he has learned about his wife ("When she asks you in a dreamy voice if you would like to come out on the patio with her to admire the stars, do not say 'As soon as Lost is over, hon,' " and "Do not assume that just because she is perfectly capable of opening her own car door that she enjoys doing so"). Ah, women. The inhabitants of some far-off, completely mystifying reality. And with that thought the husband retreats contentedly into his own, understandable, reality. For at least another 3 years or so.

But secretly, his wife thinks that although a trophy would simply gather dust, it was sweet of him to think of it.

Social deadbeats

Ah, weekend evenings. The time when we all look forward to relaxing, going out on the town, having fun...and going to the grocery store.

At least, that's what you do on weekend nights if you are us.

Call us a wild couple, but that is what we have found ourselves doing lately. Saturday mornings, which used to be our -- "our" meaning "my" -- usual time for doing the shopping, slowly started getting busy, and before we knew it there we were at Superfresh on Saturday nights, along with all the other social, um, misfits. I am embarrassed to be seen at such a place on an evening when everyone else is out making revelry, and at first I would slink in lest anyone I knew, who might be nearby going to see "Indiana Jones," would see me. The most exciting thing we can do at the store is pretend we're Indiana Jones, searcing for hidden treasure in the form of Lucky Charms.

But don't think that the grocery store on Friday or Saturday night is dead. That's what WE thought, and it was some comfort to feel that, even if we were now among the ranks of those whose most exciting evening activity was deciding whether to get the oven roasted or the mesquite turkey lunchmeat, at least we could do our deliberating in peace. Nothing could be further from the truth.

First of all, the grocery store is overrun with excess children on these evenings -- children, perhaps, whose babysitter canceled at the last minute and whose parents decided that the store could double as a playground for the kids while they get their weekly shopping done. There is no supervision at this playground. Parents are heedless of the destruction caused by their little pirates and bandits swooping through the aisles, catsup and toilet paper and maraschino cherries all being knocked to the ground. At one of the stores we frequent, someone with a malevolent sense of humor has stashed cages of beach balls right near the self-checkout lanes. Need I say more?

And then you have various groups of young people, looking for something to take to whatever gathering they are going to, and wondering, aloud, if brownies can be baked in a frying pan, because that is all the cookware they have at home.

And then there is the two of us. I can't even say that this is a social outing, because we often split up due to Joe's firm belief that what one of us can do, both of us don't need to do at the same time. Besides, his visits to the grocery store are infrequent enough that everything is quite new to him. While I proceed through the store collecting the items on our list and dutifully crossing them off, he is inspecting all the different forms of garlic one can buy, or examining the nutritional content of the 387 varieties of breakfast cereal.

But who knows? Maybe one of these nights, when no one is looking, one of us will jump in the cart and the other will careen through the aisles with it. And now that I think about it, maybe those beach balls at the checkout lanes aren't such a bad idea after all....

In search of warmth

Things were a bit slow there for the first several weeks of my new job, but they are certainly beginning to pick up. Yes, sir. My most pressing work project at the moment is: trying to keep warm.

Keeping warm is not ordinarily something one has to worry about in June, when it is 85 degrees. But that is the outside temperature. This, oddly enough, has nothing to do with the inside temperature of the average workplace. Indoor temperatures seem to be more closely related to the mating habits of hippos than to what the weather is like, or even -- astounding thought! -- the clothing being worn by employees, who generally dress in accordance with the outside temperature. This is a big mistake, however, particularly when they don't work outside.

Due to the recent departure of several employees where I work (none of whom, to my knowledge, had temperature-related issues), and the impending arrival of several new people, offices are being switched around. If they ask me if I want a new space, I have my answer ready:

The bathroom.

My rationale is simple: The bathroom is the warmest room in the building. I spend a good deal of time at the sink in there -- which poses a problem on my time sheet, there being no category for "restroom activities" -- just letting the warm, wonderful water spill over onto my hands, restoring life where there had been but bitter numbness. I'm sure someone in finance has noticed a marked increase in the company's water usage since I joined. Any day now, I expect to be accosted in the act and led away to my boss with the explanation that "We found her in the bathroom again, just holding her hands under the hot water."

They may even revoke my sink privileges. "This employee must be accompanied at all times to the restroom," they might intone, "by a responsible female employee, perferably one who is always warm and who will not be tempted to follow the employee's example of wasting the hot water. The employee will be allowed 10.2 seconds to wash her hands ONLY in the event of actual restroom need."

Several years ago when I was still teaching, I had an assistant who was, shall we say, in a different stage of life than I was -- one in which she would, without warning, bolt from the classroom and stick her head inside the nearest freezer. One day the building engineer, who was unaware of this routine, came around with the heating and cooling guy to see if there were any problems. Sounding confident, he asked, "You guys don't really have any issues with heating and cooling in here, do you?"

My assistant stared at him as though wondering how on earth a person so ignorant could possibly exist. "You are talking about a woman in her 40s and a woman in her 20s being in the same room," she said frostily. "Of COURSE we have issues with heating and cooling!"

And that pretty much sums up the problem. As long as there are these interpersonal variances -- age differences, gender differences, inny and outie belly buttons -- there will be issues with heating and cooling. If you have any ideas about how to solve this problem, please let me know. I'll be in the bathroom.

Short thoughts about toilets

Sometimes you find yourself in a life situation that you did not anticipate. (If you have never found yourself in such a situation, let me know. I'd like to know how you have accomplished this, and -- more importantly -- how I can accomplish this.) When this happens, it is important to find an individual who is supportive, is understanding, and can help you put things in perspective by, say, telling you how much worse the situation could be.

I was explaining to a friend my disappointment with a certain situation, one that involved a considerable amount of boredom and uncertainty. As friends do, she endeavored to cheer me up by telling me a story. The story was about missionaries, which didn't quite pertain to my particular situation, but as missionary stories are usually interesting I listened attentively.

She said that she had read that sometimes missionaries find themselves doing everything but what they had gone to the mission field to do, things like hauling water by donkey, competing with hairy creatures for sleeping space, or cleaning toilets. This last point was the one my friend thought was pertinent to my own situation.

"Eventually," she said, "you'll figure out your purpose. Just think of what you're going through right now as your toilet-cleaning experience."

Well, this certainly made me think. But probably not in the way my friend meant it to. Mostly it made me think of my real toilet at home, which desperately needs cleaning. Maybe someday I can get my own missionary to take care of that.

Adventures in eating

Against my better judgment, I went to an Indian restaurant for lunch today. My idea of adventurous eating is putting mayonnaise on both pieces of my sandwich bread. So you can imagine my trepidation at eating at an Indian restaurant, where, for all I know, they might think tree bark is a delicacy. But as I am new at my job, and the rest of my department was going, I didn't feel I could decline. Maybe after I've been there for a few months or so, I can say, "You want me to do what, now?" But for now, I just pretended like Indian food was my favorite thing in the world.

Joe, being more experienced in these matters, had given me some pointers before I went: The spinach stuff (authentic Indian name: "spinach stuff") is good, but stay away from pork vindaloo (so named because victims -- er, consumers -- often must rush away to the "loo," at least if they are eating this in Britain).

"So, how was it?" Joe asked when I came home.

"It was...baby food. Basically, I had baby food for lunch," I said.

The restaurant had been a buffet place, and that's exactly what everything looked like. Pureed mush, with some little chunks of unknown solids floating in some of the mush. Even babies probably would have mistaken it for something to play with, not eat. The only things that were recognizable as actual food were the pita bread and plain rice.

Joe wanted to know if there had been any chicken dishes. "Usually they have a couple of meat items," he said.

"Well, there were some things that were labeled chicken," I said dubiously, "but I couldn't get an independent confirmation of that. They seemed a little offended when I asked."

"And another thing," I said, "there weren't any directions telling you what you were supposed to do with this goop -- assuming you wanted to eat it. Do you dip something in it? Scoop it? Slurp it? It really was rather rude of the establishment to keep that to themselves."

Fortunately I did not have to survive on pita bread and baby food for the rest of the afternoon, as we had a party later in the office. I was so happy to see food that I knew was food: little squares of pineapple, carrot sticks, chips (although Joe disagrees with the categorization of chips as "food"), cake...and the best part of all: no bowl of mush, with little chunks floating in it.

Parental wrongs

Although my parents live several states away, I am kept well-abreast of their disagreements because they tend to conduct them when I am on the phone with the two of them. They insist that they never argue when they are alone. No one, of course, can confirm this.

The latest of their spirited discussions occurred back on Mother's Day. They were both on the line with me, as usual, and were telling me which of my siblings had already called to extend their wishes to Mom. This is common among families in which there is more than one child, and it serves to cause the siblings to strive to be the first to call the parents on an important occasion. In families with strong sibling rivalry, this can lead, over time, to phone calls in the middle of the night, which in the case of my parents would likely catch them awake, but in the bathroom.

Anyway, my mother relayed that she had just talked to my oldest sister. My father, ever the Keeper of Truth, informed us that it had been Sister #3, not Sister #1.

My mother politely corrected him. It had been, indeed, Sister #1.

Equally politely, my father said it had not.

"I'm sorry," my mother said, "but you're wrong."

"Well, I'm sorry," my father said, "but you're wrong."

From here the politeness experienced a marked decline.

"How would you know?" my mother retorted. "You didn't even talk to her."

"I was sitting right next to you when you were talking to her. I could tell from the way you were talking who it was," he said.

Mothers may have eyes in the back of their head, but fathers are not without their little tricks -- they have ears in the back of their head, or somewhere in addition to the usual spot.

"How was I talking to her?" my mother asked.

"You -- you mentioned her trip!" he said triumphantly. "She just went to Tennessee," referring to Sister #3.

There was a pause. "I asked about her trip because she just went to Ohio," my mother said, referring to Sister #1.

I could imagine my father shaking his head. "You must have talked to her earlier in the week," he said.

"I should know who I'm talking to," my mother said in annoyance.

"Yes, you should, but you obviously don't," my father said. His tone indicated his belief that she was just steps away from a facility for those whose memory isn't what it used to be.

At this point I put the phone down to empty the dishwasher. I was in no danger of missing anything they said; it all came through quite clearly. When I picked up the phone my mother was saying, "We should just call her right now," meaning Sister #1, "and ask her if she just talked to me."

"Fine with me," he said. "But you're wasting your time."

"We'll see. Well, dear," she said to me, in the first piece of conversation that had been directed at me in several minutes, "it was lovely to talk to you, but we have to go now. Take care."

Quite irrespective of sibling rivalry, I now have an added incentive to be the first to call my parents on important occasions. Next time, one of my siblings can listen to my parents argue about who I was.

Get your newspaper!

For the past few months, our household has been waging what may be called the Great Newspaper War. This was is being fought on two fronts -- on one, we are trying to rid ourselves of a free paper that, despite our repeated efforts, is deposited on our doorstep every day; on the other front, we have been endeavoring to procure another free but wanted publication that has proven to be maddeningly elusive.

The unwanted newspaper -- which we will call The Wart -- appeared without warning one day several months ago. And the day after that. And the day after that. As it carried basically the same news as our subscription paper but was not as well written (and, more importantly, had NO comics), I decided to take action.

Being of Nonconfrontational persuasion, however, I was not eager to take direct action, such as calling the newspaper offices. I might have to talk to an actual person, which I was anxious to avoid. Therefore I scoured the paper for an e-mail address to which I could direct my complaint. Now, companies know that many customers, given a choice, would rather make a complaint without talking to someone, and so they make it hard to do so. Although the paper listed, in large letters, the phone number to call to request that delivery cease, the e-mail address was printed in teeny tiny type, such that an ant would have difficulty reading it.

In my e-mail, I informed Whomever It Does Concern that we no longer wished to receive their publication. (In a fit of graciousness, I did not mention that we never had wished to receive it.) I asked Whomever to stop delivery immediately.

The next morning the paper was there again. After three days I was contemplating taking additional action, but before I could formulate a plan, it stopped coming.

"Well!" I said to Joe, satisfied. "Looks like the consumer voice prevailed after all."

My satisfaction was short-lived, as the paper showed up again just a week later. Joe's opinion was that it was easier for the driver to just throw a paper to each house rather than figure out which one of the 18 rowhouses was not supposed to get one.

I sent another e-mail. This time I praised Whomever for their prompt attention to my earlier complaint, but pointed out that the paper still came, and was still unwanted. I got no response, and the paper continued to be delivered.

I had turned my attention to the other front in the Great Newspaper War when, some weeks later, I noticed that not only was the unwanted paper not there one particular morning, none of our neighbors had gotten one either.

"Nice going," said Joe. "You canceled it for the whole block."

"Hmmph," I said. "I'm sure everyone's grateful. It was a useless paper."

But just in case they didn't see it quite the way I did, I made sure not to mention to anyone what I had done, except for Mrs. Nosy Neighbor, who was of the same opinion as I toward this particular publication.

The issue of trying to arrange delivery of the other paper -- a weekly local that ran a sometimes interesting humor column, which I admit was the main attraction for me -- demanded even more strategic planning. I politely e-mailed another Whomever, begging to be put back on the delivery route for their delightful publication. I was assured that the matter would be looked into.

Some time elapsed, but eventually The Little Paper that Could landed at our doorstep. I was delighted. Mrs. Nosy Neighbor was delighted. The other neighbors -- well, I never heard what they thought of it.

Because the next week, the paper did not come.

I let it go another few weeks before e-mailing again. Our e-mail exchange went something like this:

Me: Thank you for your prompt response to my request to renew delivery of The Little Paper that Could. We enjoyed reading it the one day that it came. Unfortunately, it has been absent ever since. Do you think you could restart delivery once again?

Newspaper woman: You are in County X. The driver generally delivers only to County Y.

Me: True, but we are in City Z, and the driver delivers to the rest of City Z. All the driver has to do to deliver to County X is to drive across Bridge A, which a turtle could easily do.

Newspaper woman: The driver greatly resents being compared to a turtle and says that if you want the paper, come over Bridge A to City Z in County Y and get it yourself. And if you make any more complaints, she'll see to it that you start receiving The Wart again. Twice a day. Sundays, too.

At least now we know the real reason for declining newspaper readership. It's all in the hands of the delivery people.

Snacks, Inc.

My hours at my new job are 8-4:30, although very little of this time is devoted to actual work. We are too busy throwing parties.

A typical day goes something like this:

8:00 (or slightly earlier): Arrive, make loud arrival noises so co-workers and bosses are aware that you are at your post on time and are ready to receive any treats being passed around.
8:05: Check kitchen for treats on way to restroom.
8:11: Check kitchen for treats on way back from restroom.
8:12-8:15: If no treats have appeared in kitchen, frown at table where they are usually located, hoping this will induce some to appear. If treats have appeared, take one for now and one for later, after breakfast.
8:16: Check table near editors' cubes for treats.
8:18: Sit down in cube, arrange paper clips, rearrange location of two photographs on desk, etc. Realize that you are in someone else's cube. Slink back to your own cube and repeat.
8:30: Someone announces surprise party to celebrate an employee's new car purchase; partake of car-shaped cake.
8:50: Open e-mail announcing that the entire curriculum staff, which includes editors, will be taking one of their staff to lunch today to celebrate the occasion of her adult child finally moving out of the home. Cheer at the announcement that lunch will include dessert for all.
9:04: On way to restroom, happen to notice that someone has brought in leftovers from a graduation party. On way back to cube, help yourself to some of the cookies. At last minute, also take two carrots to keep up the appearance of eating healthy.
9:23: Sample some pastries brought in by the graphic designer, who is leaving soon to open a restaurant and wants some opinions on recipes the restaurant will carry. Write in her goodbye luncheon and party date on calendar.
9:58: Get reminder notice of two-hour meeting starting at 10:00; frantically search through drawers to find some chocolate to help you stay awake. Crumbs of last week's chocolate granola bar will have to do.
10:01: Arrive at meeting to find that the host has thoughtfully provided coffee cake. Take a generous portion to make up for the granola bar crumbs.
10:06-11:59: Sleep through meeting. Blame on excess sugar.
12:03: Arrive back at desk to find e-mail inviting all interested parties to an afternoon trip to The Cow, a quaint stand serving ice cream and water ice. Send immediate acceptance.
12:05: Go to lunch for co-worker.
2:40: Arrive back at work; immediately leave for The Cow.
3:13: Again arrive back at work, this time taking care NOT to make arrival noises so that others will think you have been hard at work all this time.
4:30: Heave self out of chair; check kitchen for any leftovers for the long drive home; amble to car, brownies in tow.

Repeat next day.

The week I started working, there were goodbye parties for three people (Note: There was NO connection between these events). Someone's wife was having twins (we each got two pieces of cake in their honor). There was a bridal shower one day. The big boss turned 50 another day. When there are no occasions to celebrate, someone brings in food anyway. Joe has expressed deep surprise that we don't all weigh 300 pounds.

"A lot of us are pretty new," I said. "Give us some time, and we may be heading there."

One morning on my drive in, I found myself hoping that someone would bring donuts or something, although I knew there were no events scheduled. Lo and behold, a woman in my department came in with a cake and balloon and announced her 5th anniversary. Since she'd only been with the company since December, I whispered "Anniversary of what?" to someone standing next to me. She was a cancer survivor. Now there's something to celebrate.

Today I spied a box of donuts around 2 in the afternoon. As no one had said anything about donuts, I assumed they were old (and I was not that desperate for old donuts, although some days I certainly am not above them). I had to keep passing them on my way to...okay, so they were in a corner where I never have any reason to go, but they did make me curious. Finally I asked someone if they were old.

"No! Didn't you hear Nikki say 'Donuts!' this morning?"

I shook my head sadly. All this time, donuts had been waiting, and I hadn't known.

"You gotta listen to Nikki when she comes in," my co-worker urged. And she didn't mean for new assignments.

One of these days, I'm thinking there's going to be an announcement of quite another type:

"We are pleased to announce that Weight Watchers has agreed to hold weekly meetings at lunchtime for all those interested in joining...."

Unfashion consultant

Like many husbands, Joe often needs a bit of assistance in putting together acceptable outfits in which to go to work. I used to be able to monitor his choice of clothing in the mornings, but now most of the time I leave before he does, so he has been on his own.

“What have you been doing without your fashion consultant in the morning?” I asked.

“You don’t want to know,” he said.

This was worrisome. I encouraged him to put into practice a plan he has been talking about for some time, namely, making a chart of all his pants and shirts and what goes with what. Originally I had not thought it necessary, but it was sounding better and better.

Such a chart would, of course, need my input, or else instead of looking like this:

Pants --------------- Shirt
Black dressy ------- Black and purple stripes; gray and black pinstripe

Blue ----------------- Dark blue/light blue/white stripes
Tan ------------------ Yellow solid, black solid
Gray ---------------- Gray and black pinstripe
Black casual -------- Yellow solid

it might end up looking like this:

Pants ---------- Shirt
Light ---------- Dark
Dark ----------- Light
Not so dark --- Whatever’s left

As can be seen from this chart, Joe’s world has two colors: light and dark. Anything beyond this is unnecessary. He insists that I have made up all the other colors, as he can think of no practical use for them. Both orange and purple are red. Green and gray are merely shades of black.

I set out my clothes the night before, and have often extolled the virtues of this practice to him, particularly so that I can approve his choice or make a polite suggestion, such as "Wear that over my dead body!" But this strategy is much too structured for him. He prefers the "spontaneous" look. This way he can pretend that he is going to the beach rather than to the office.

Let's just hope that one of these days he doesn't forget that he is pretending, and end up at work wearing beach gear. I don't want to get a call from his HR person saying, "Mrs. Bohart, are you aware that your husband arrived at work today in swim trunks? And bright red ones, no less? As you are the Primary Spousal Fashion Consultant listed on his Emergency Contacts, we are holding you personally responsible for this grievous transgression of company policy."

To which I might reply, "Yes, but doesn't he look good?"

Where has all the magic gone?

When one member of a marital union, who hitherto has worked from the couple's home, goes to work outside the home full time, it often creates stress on the marital relationship. The spouse, who -- by virtue of having always worked outside the home and having a long commute -- has been accustomed up to this point to having his meals prepared, his clothes washed and neatly folded, his shirts pressed, and his computer dusted, suddenly must cope with the reality that the Magic Genie who used to live at his house and who performed all these services no longer wishes to be solely responsible for them.

This is confusing, and disappointing, as he liked the Magic Genie, and does not fully comprehend why she had to go away. The Magic Genie was sweet, and relatively uncomplaining. In her place is a Drill Sergeant who is constantly wanting him to "help out," to do things like chop up zucchini for dinner, take out the garbage (including the zucchini peels), and fold his own underwear.

He tries to do what the Drill Sergeant would like him to do, but he finds she is not easy to please. Waiting to take the trash out until it smells like an open sewer is not in keeping with her expectations. The shower curtain must drape nicely outside the bathtub after he is done showering, not be all scrunched inside of it. Omitting the laundry in favor of simply buying additional white t-shirts and dress socks is not acceptable.

While he attempts to carry out the Sergeant's instructions, he secretly hopes for the Magic Genie to come back. He tries to lure her by proposing time-saving dinners, which would give her more writing time. But the Drill Sergeant, he learns, does not like the idea of having roasted deli chicken -- or worse, boiled chicken -- with canned mixed vegetables for dinner every night. She wants more variety, more creative ideas, more healthy meals. Nor does she warm to the idea of eating their meals right from the pan, over the sink, saving precious time in setting and clearing the table and washing the dishes.

Life begins to settle down into an uneasy routine, and he thinks wistfully of the Magic Genie every now and then. But then his spouse's first paycheck arrives, and suddenly he thinks, maybe the Drill Sergeant isn't so bad after all. And he hums to himself as he cuts up the zucchini.

For some, success comes in a box

I have a little secret: I don't do pies -- as in make them -- mainly because pies require a pie crust, and I don't do pie crusts. When I need one, which isn't often, I look for the little red Pillsbury box in the refrigerated aisle. The little red box now contains two round pie crusts that you unroll instead of two square ones that you unfold. Those people at Pillsbury are geniuses.

I have no interest in making pie crusts because I have heard all my life how hard it is to make them. If someone tells me something is too hard, I'm going to believe them. No need for me to try to prove them wrong.

It's true that I have numerous recipes for homemade pie crusts with titles meant to reassure the first-time pie maker, such as "Never-Fail Pie Crust," "Can't Miss Pie Crust," "If You Can't Make This Crust You Are a Born Loser," etc. But I steadfastly refuse to try any of these recipes because if I try, and I do fail, what kind of loser would THAT make me? No, thank you. Adventurous people may enjoy finding -- and stretching -- their limits, but I prefer to keep mine a little fuzzy.

One Thanksgiving, Joe and I were invited to some friends' house along with a few of their relatives. The women in this family were all Pie Women. You know the ones I mean. They can crank out pies like the rest of us make grilled cheese. Of course they had gone all out for Thanksgiving. (I had opted to bring stuffing. No crust needed.) At some point the conversation turned to desserts, and for some reason -- maybe the stuffing went to my head -- I recklessly admitted that I didn't make pies.

Conversation all around the table abruptly stopped, and everyone stared at me. Then they looked at Joe with undisguised sympathy. I didn't make my husband pies? I may as well have said that I didn't kiss him goodbye each morning.

I hastened to reassure them that I make him all kinds of other goodies, but the social damage was done. I'm sure the women were busy thinking how they could slip him a couple of extra slices for the ride home, poor man.

But even this incident has not been enough to induce me to try Never-Fail Pie Crust. The public embarrassment is nothing compared with what I would suffer privately should I, indeed, fail at something that was, for everyone else, no-fail. No, my never-fail pie crust will continue to come in a little red box.

And luckily for me, Joe likes it just fine.

The spirit is willing, but the flesh is hungry

Ahem. If the writing of this blog entry today seems somewhat strained, it is because the Gallant Hero is sitting right next to me as I type, so that, HE SAYS, he can work on another computer he is putting together for our church. For some reason not entirely explained to me, he must do this on my desk. Personally I think he is just trying to weasel some input into what I say about him. No matter. This writing will proceed just as if he were not --

"Don't believe anything she says!"

-- here.

Hmmm. This may not be so easy to ignore.

It might surprise you to know that the number one reason couples quarrel is NOT that one is Invading the Other's Computer Space. That, in fact, is number three, following Taking Over the Other's Napping Space at number two, at least in our house. Number one -- again, at least in our house -- is Raiding the Other's Food Territory.

Whereas Joe, when raiding my food territory, does so for his own benefit, I raid his only to give to others who may or may not be in need of excess calories, such as neighbors or people at work. You might say that I am the Robin Hood of this transgression. Leftover cookies, cake, bars -- all find a home elsewhere so that we are not tempted to consume it all ourselves.

Sometimes Joe actually encourages this. He is particularly generous with his extra portions of sweets when he wishes to lose some weight but does not wish to exercise to bring this about. We even made a pact, some time ago, that all leftover sweets I made would be donated. But the other night, the Food Territory Defense Reaction kicked in.

I had made fruit pizza, and after we had enjoyed a reasonable portion -- that is, reasonable if six of us had been eating it -- I informed Joe that I was going to take some of it to work, and he should tell me how much he wanted me to leave at home.

"What?" he said, alarmed. He even stopped typing at his computer.

"I said I'm taking some to work. You always say you don't want it around."

He shook his head almost violently, and I thought for a minute that he would try to keep the fruit pizza by force.

"You want to keep it all," I said.

He nodded eagerly, although he seemed to realize that he should present some justification for going against our agreement. "Well, it's kind of good for you, right? I mean, it's got fruit."

Fruit. Right. Never mind the butter, and sugar, and cream cheese...

And they say men never focus on the details.

His resolve being what it was, my attempt at a Food Raid ended unsuccessfully. Oh, well. My co-workers' loss is definitely our gain.

Decorating when you're a dummy

A lot of my new co-workers, like me, are former teachers. Unlike me, however, they are quite skilled with those homey little touches teachers are known for -- bulletin board borders surrounding their cubicle, cute little pictures and inspirational sayings, rubber duckies, Kewpie dolls, flowers, flamingos, more flowers, pictures of naked babies sitting in pea pods, etc. The few men among us, more subdued in their tastes but not to be outdone by the women, have little model cars and airplanes lining the tops of their cubicles.

One woman has fastened fake tulips on the outside of a number of cubicles, mine included. For the first two weeks I was there, every time I looked up from my computer I caught this red tulip out of the corner of my eye and jumped, thinking it was someone watching me. This is a very real possibility in Cubicle Land, so I'm not just being paranoid.

One day a higher-up stopped at my cubicle to introduce herself. She had already done this the week before, as I was being led around for the obligatory New Employee Tour (whose purpose, ostensibly, is to introduce you to everyone, but which really is to confuse the heck out of you). But I guess she didn't remember me from the first time.

"How are things going?" was her first question.

I figured her second question would be something along the lines of "When are you going to start making money for us?"

Instead, she said, "When are you going to decorate your cubicle?"

She looked for any evidence that I intended to do so. "Oh, I see you brought a lamp," she said, encouragingly. "That's a start."

"Um, actually," I said, "that was already here."

She shook her head. "Don't admit that."

If my success at this new job depends on my decorating ability, I am doomed. A major reason for leaving the teaching profession was that I just never measured up to the other teachers in terms of classroom decorations. The only thing I was good at, decorating-wise, was window stickees. I had window stickees for every holiday, including your more obscure holidays, like National Sandwich Day. Other than that, the most decorative thing in my room was the poster showing what to do in a fire drill. Unfortunately I do not have any windows in my cubicle, so my skill with window stickees is wasted at this job.

Our house also bears witness to my lack of decorator genes. We have lived here almost two years, and many of our walls are still blank -- although not so many as were blank just last week, when Joe, tiring of the Empty Wall look, took advantage of my absence one day to hang 10 or 12 picture frames upstairs.

Of course, none of them have pictures in them yet -- at least, not any of us, nor of anyone we know. There is one picture of a distinguished-looking gentleman walking on a beach with an umbrella; through some whim of Joe's, the man is taking his stroll sideways. The man's pants are several inches above his shoes, giving the impression that he is a prudent man, ready for deluge both from above and from below.

My co-workers have also given hints about decorating my cube. I tried to joke about it by saying, "Well, I'm not very good at that sort of thing; I may have to contract that out."

"Well, there are a lot of people who freelance here," they said seriously. "You should be able to find someone you can hire to do it."

They left me alone after that, but I'm sure it won't be for long. My one hope is to bribe the woman who planted the fake tulips -- she is leaving the company soon -- to leave me all her decorations. I won't know what to do with them, but at least if people ask if I'm going to decorate, I can wave vaguely at the pile she left and say, "Oh, sure, I've just been too busy to get around to it."

Meanwhile, I have the lamp.

Hobbies aren't us

"How was your first day of work?" Joe asked a few weeks ago when I started my new job.

"Well, my boss asked me a disturbing personal question," I said.

"Did you tell HR?" he said, alarmed.

"No, not disturbing in that way," I said. "She wanted to know what you and I like to do together in our spare time."

"Spare time?" he echoed, as if unfamiliar with the term.

"For fun," I explained.

"Oh. What'd you say?"

"Well, I didn't think 'eat ice cream out of the carton' was really what she meant, so I told her we like to go to flea markets and antique places. Not that we have done those things very often lately," I said significantly.

"Well, we do lots of other things together," he protested.

"Like?" I said.

"Like...we go out to eat together," he said.

"No, we need some interests," I said. "You know, like some couples like to travel, or go boating together."

"I like to go to the beach," he offered.

"Yeah, but we do that, what, a couple of times a year?" I said. "We need something we do more often...we need to develop a 'signature' activity -- something that's really interesting and that we pursue wholeheartedly."

"We could pursue going to the beach wholeheartedly," he said with enthusiasm.

I decided to take a different tack. "Maybe it would help to narrow our choices," I said. "We don't really like anything outdoorsy -- other than the beach," I said hastily, as I saw him getting ready to say something again. "So that cuts out stuff like camping, hiking, kayaking, hunting --"

"Of course I don't want to go hunting!" he said, horrified.

"-- mountain climbing, fishing, bird watching, bug catching...hmmm, quite a lot of things, actually," I mused.

"I would like to take up fishing," he said. "You could bring along a book and read on the bank."

"Welll," I said, wondering how to get out of that one delicately, "that wouldn't really qualify as doing something together."

He thought some more. "We both like historic stuff, like museums," he suggested.

I looked at him. "Who fell asleep in a hammock in the last museum we were in?"

"Well, if you didn't have to stop and read every single sign in the place, even the ones that say Donated in Memory of Mrs. Ethel Kackelmuss..." he retorted.

I mentally crossed museums off our potential "signature activity" list.

"How about playing games?" was his next suggestion.

"Like Chinese checkers on our honeymoon?" I asked.

"Now, lovey, not every game we play ends up with you throwing the board at me. Although, come to think of it," he mused, "we haven't really played any games with a board since then...."

I crossed playing games off our list.

And so it went. We thought for a long time, trading ideas back and forth, neither of us finding just the perfect interest to pursue as a couple.

Although we do like to take naps. So until something better comes to mind, that's what we'll be doing in our spare time. Although I probably won't tell my boss.