The truth about couches

Today we continue with the topic of couches. This common household item is surprisingly misunderstood, particularly by married males, and today we would like to explore some of these fallacies and set these poor, misguided souls straight.

Common (Male) Fallacies Regarding Couches

1. Fallacy: The main function of a couch is to provide a wide-open space upon which to stretch out your frame unhindered for a nice, long (preferably winter's) nap, particularly if your spouse has a long list of things for you to accomplish.

Truth: The couch is for holding stacks of library books, cradling multitudinous decorative pillows that have no function whatsoever, housing clean laundry that needs to be put away, and temporarily storing extra family members or friends or pets. If the couch is not currently being used in any of these capacities, it will be soon, and should therefore not be considered "available."

2. Fallacy: If you nap on the couch long enough, your list of chores will mysteriously disappear.

Truth: The length of the list of chores is proportional to the amount of time spent on the couch.

3. Fallacy: It is okay to leave the pillows in disarray after sitting on the couch. After all, your comfort is the most important thing.

Truth: Those ducks who provided the feather stuffing for the pillows? No one cared about THEIR comfort.

4. Fallacy: Couches are for actually sitting on.

Truth: That is the reason your wife purchased a soft rug for the floor.

5. Fallacy: Both ends of the couch are exactly alike, and therefore it does not matter which end you sit on to watch TV and which end you leave open for your spouse to sit on.

Truth: Your spouse invariably has a favorite end, and it is in your best interest to determine which end this is, and to seat yourself on the other end, even if both ends seem exactly alike to you.

6. Fallacy: A pillow is a pillow. When you nap on the couch, you are free to use the decorative pillows as a headrest to make your nap more comfortable.

Truth: See #3, Ducks.

We hope that this short guide to couch usage has been of some assistance in understanding their proper function. We should perhaps mention one further Truth: On your spouse's birthday (hint, hint), she is free to indulge in as many of these fallacies as she sees fit.

Pillow invasion

At times, spouses may have a conversation together about various items in the home. This conversation will generally include discussion about various other items that are not in the home, but which the wife feels very strongly should be in the home.

A husband may attempt to dissuade his wife from her feelings about the necessity of these items, particularly if money must be parted with in order to acquire them. After some time of discussion, the wife may refrain from mentioning the subject again.

Husbands, do not think that because your wife has not mentioned the subject for some time that she has forgotten it. No. During its forced confinement the idea has incubated, and ripened, and at some future point will blossom into sudden fullness. To you, who have forgotten that the subject was ever discussed, this blossoming will seem random and greatly ill-advised.

For about a year and a half we have been in possession of a leather couch. Although we have been pleased with the couch -- mainly because it has allowed us to fritter away valuable time on naps -- the couch was not realizing its full potential, which is to house mounds of decorative pillows that prevent occupants from being able to fully engage with the couch and generally enjoy their sitting (or napping) experience.

When the couch first arrived we were in complete agreement that it needed pillows. I record here, for all posterity, Joe's exact words on the subject:

"We need some pillows for the couch."

But that was 19 months ago, during which time the couch has remained pillowless, because choosing pillows is a major task not to be taken lightly. I haunted home stores, looking for exactly the right pillows, pillows that would convey a message to all who enter our home. This message basically is: Don't sit here.

At last, exactly the right pillows were located and were strategically placed on the couch. I waited for Joe to notice the new pillows, confident that he would share my joy that the couch was finally "finished."

It did not take him long to notice the pillows, as they are the only objects in the room that are not black, brown, or beige.

"There are pillows on the couch," he said.

"Yes," I said happily. "We finally got pillows!"

"Why did we get pillows?"

"Why did we get pillows?" I repeated. "We were always going to get pillows! You even said we should get pillows."

This was greeted with some measure of disbelief.

"When we got the couch, you said" -- here I positioned myself in front of the couch exactly as he had stood that day, hoping to jog his memory -- 'We need some pillows for the couch.' There was never a time when we weren't going to get pillows."

Clearly he thought there existed some sort of statute of limitations on agreements regarding pillows, but after further discussion he could see that the pillows were not leaving.

"At least I can still see the couch," he said in a resigned voice. I had bought only two pillows.

"Hmmmm," I said thoughtfully, an idea starting to percolate.

"No," he said. "No more pillows."

"Hmmmm," I said.

Kids really 'R us

Our grocery store, having completed a renovation that lasted approximately 27 months, 3 weeks, and 6 days, during which time even the non-perishables started perishing because no one could find anything, apparently wants to make sure that it will have customers in the future. It has implemented new services aimed at a particular subgroup of customers: those who are less than 3 feet high.

First there are the carts. The regular carts have shrunk to miniature size and, lest adult shoppers not be able to see them careening through the aisles, a pole is attached to each cart with a flag proclaiming: Customer in Training.

This has introduced kids to a privilege previously reserved for grownups: impulse purchasing. Items that appeal to them are thoughtfully placed on the lowest shelves so that they do not need to bother Mom or Dad to get them. But this does have a side benefit for parents. It offers a great exercise opportunity as they run back through the store returning everything the child put in the cart.

Kids are also learning the importance of caring for one's vehicle. One young boy temporarily stopped traffic in front of the registers to adjust the flag on his cart so it could point just the right way. The father tried to assured him this wasn't necessary. He got a withering glance from his son.

"It's s'posed to go THIS way," the child said firmly.

"David, David," the father moaned as he buried his head in his hands. No doubt he was suddenly realizing why the mother had been so insistent that HE go to the grocery store this time.

But sometimes the novelty of the tiny cart lasts only a few aisles, and it is forgotten in favor of some new attraction. One mother came around the corner pushing her child's cart, bent over painfully to reach it, while the toddler followed along behind, oblivious to the abandonment of his duties. A whole generation of parents will need chiropractic services in a few years, their backs permanently bent in a U from pushing grocery carts abandoned by their progeny.

When kids tire of pushing their carts, they can learn how to use the new handheld scanners. One father held out a bag of carrots to his daughter, and the girl started wildly scanning everything in sight -- the grocery cart, the shopping bags, nearby shoppers, etc. -- everything except the bag of carrots. The father frantically waved the carrots around, trying in vain to catch the laser beam at some point in the air.

I would bet that the net time parents are spending in the grocery store has increased since the advent of tiny carts and handheld scanners. I know MY time has. But it sure is more entertaining.

Declared old

The Motor Vehicle Administration, in a gesture of goodwill for my approaching birthday, has declared that I am Old, based on the fact that I am over 40. I am therefore subject to Vision Certification if I want to continue enjoying the privilege of driving my vehicle. This Vision Certification, according to the MVA notice I received, can be obtained in one of two ways:

1. I can beg my eye doctor to fill out an MVA form that is 15 pages long, detailing my last vision test, my ability to see peripherally, my ability to swivel my head 360 degrees to be alert to any possible traffic danger, etc. The doctor must confirm that I have perfect 20-20 vision at all times, even while sleeping ("And what did this monster who was chasing you in the dream look like? Uh huh...and what happened when it got within two feet of you? Could you still see its scales clearly?...[writing on the MVA form] could not describe monster in detail...says she was eaten...patient clearly unable to see close up").

2. I can confess that, due to my advanced age, I am a Danger to Society and immediately surrender my license and my car.

Now I can understand if someone is truly elderly. An 89-year-old woman comes in to renew her license, they might have some valid concerns.

MVA employee: "Mrs. Kratz, we're just going to give you a little test to find out how well you can see. Please look into this device here."

Mrs. Kratz: "What device?"

A long pause.

Employee: "So, Mrs. Kratz, how long has it been since you've had a vision test?"

Mrs. Kratz: "Not that it's any of your business, but I'm proud to say I haven't been to an eye doctor since 1952, young man!"

Employee: "Uh, my name is Kathy."

So while I agree that vision certification for driving becomes necessary at some point, I am not 89, nor anywhere close, and besides my license has indicated corrective lenses required since I started driving at 16, and that is not likely to end any time soon. Without my glasses or contacts I am not capable of finding my car in an empty parking lot, let alone navigating my car through autobahn traffic.

I fail to see how reaching the advanced age of 40, and not being able to read print that is smaller than THIS, could affect my driving. I'll be sure to ask Kathy when I go to the MVA.

Further gestures of love and ridicule

Today we continue our look at suggestions for showing gestures of affection to your loved one, or at least finding reasons not to follow the suggestions.

The next Gestures of Love card said to wash your partner's car. "Can't do that one," I said. We have been strongly encouraged not to wash our cars in our parking area, lest all the soap wash into the waterways and destroy the ecosystem as we know it.

"Too bad," Joe said, sounding not the least bit disappointed.

"But it also says to clean the inside of the car," I noted, giving him a significant glance. That was another card, Give each other significant glances. It meant in public, but I figured a private one couldn't hurt.

"I'm gonna take a wild guess," he said. "None of these ideas were written by a guy."

That was probably true. But, I maintained, the card suggesting leave a trail of clothes for the other to find when he/she gets home was totally a guy's idea. If a woman walks into the house at the end of a tiring day and sees clothes all over the floor, she is going to yell the romantic words "Why are your clothes all over the floor?! Get out here and clean this mess up!" Which would kind of ruin the whole thing.

We moved on. "Take an afternoon nap," Joe read from the next card. "Finally, one we can do."

"But it says to nap outdoors," I said disdainfully. "As if I'm gonna get on a blanket on the ground with all those bugs."

Give a foot massage, advised another card. We looked at each other, looked at our feet.

"Next," I said.

"Create your own body language," he said. "It says to create a secret body language to communicate when you're in public. Like tugging an ear to mean 'I love you.' "

This he supported enthusiastically. It has always been his wish that we could communicate silently, without gestures even, like through some sort of ESP. He was disappointed to learn, early in our marriage, that I did not already possess this capability and was generally unable to divine what he was thinking at any particular moment, unless we were in the middle of the Tools section at Home Depot.

"I thought women knew these things," he said.

"Sorry," I said.

"That's okay," he said. "I'm still working on telling your Thinking Face from your Pouty Face."

We were halfway through the box of cards. "Is there one that says Go clothes shopping?" I said hopefully. "It's important to show love to yourself, too. That would be a great gesture of love to myself."

"Or Spend an unlimited period of time (and money) at Home Depot," Joe said.

"Maybe showing love to yourself isn't that important," I said hastily.

We decided to put the rest of the cards away for another day. And then, in a supreme gesture of love, I said sweetly, "It's your turn to wash the dishes."

Gestures of love and ridicule

Warning: Today's blog post contains several references to romantic gestures, although these romantic gestures are strictly hypothetical. No actual romantic gestures were performed for the writing of this post.

We recently discovered, buried in the clutter that continually threatens to take our house hostage, a pack of cards titled Gestures of Love: 50 Heart-Felt Recipes for Romance. Your own personal cupid! the back of the box proclaimed. We were a little fuzzy on the exact origin of these cards, but we were curious about what our own personal cupid would reveal, so we decided to read one card each night after dinner.

With our fondness for efficiency, we were expecting something along the lines of "50 romantic gestures you can do in the 20 seconds between when you finish dinner and start cleaning up." But whoever wrote these suggestions apparently was inclined to put off cleaning up, and had much more time to kill.

Fill a room with 100 balloons, the first card read. Tie the balloons with long ribbon streamers. We looked at each other.

"How much would that cost?" Joe said.

"I think cost is not supposed to be a factor," I said.

We were dubious about a roomful of balloons, and since we couldn't act on the idea right away anyway, we went on to the next card.

It advised us to put a picture of yourself on your pillow when you're away from home. Spray it with some perfume or cologne.

"That would make me sneeze," I said. "It wouldn't be very romantic to sneeze all over your picture."

We went on. Pick your loved one up at the airport. We looked at each other blankly. "As opposed to what?" I said. "Not picking them up?"

But there was more to the idea. It suggested wearing something special to the airport and running to the other person with arms outstretched, just like in the movies. "Maybe something special like a bright orange jumpsuit," Joe suggested. "And you could run and yell, 'I'm free! I'm free!' "

We looked for something that would keep us out of trouble with the justice system. The next card said write and mail a thank-you note to your partner. Use a "Love" stamp. Although Joe liked the general idea of a thank-you note, he did not see a need to mail it. "Why not just write a thank-you note to your partner? Forget the stamp."

But he got into the next card, Shine your partner's shoes. Tuck new socks into each pair of shoes and line them up in a neat row in the closet. He fairly drooled over the prospect of having neat rows of shoes in the closet. In our closet, chaos reigns. We try to maintain some semblance of order, but the minute our backs are turned the shoes all rearrange themselves into letters spelling out "Ppffftt!"

Leaving behind our visions of an organized shoe collection, we moved on to Read a great love story aloud. We thought this was a good idea, but then realism set in. "Love stories are long, right?" he said. "That would take a long time."

"Here's another suggestion," he said. "Read the newspaper aloud in bed. That wouldn't take as long as a whole story."

"But the newspaper's not very romantic," I said.

He looked at the card again. "You're supposed to do the crossword puzzle together, give your own advice to the Dear Abby questions, laugh at the comics--"

"Or laugh at the Dear Abby questions," I said.

In the end he strongly objected to reading the paper in bed on the grounds that the paper was dirty. "We might as well eat Cheez-Its in bed," he said, horrified at the prospect.

I agreed that Cheez-Its and newspapers should stay out of the bed. That way I can eat AND do the crossword puzzle by myself.

Join us next time as we continue our attempts to find appropriate gestures of love that do not dirty our home any more than it already is, make us sneeze, or land us in jail.

A good pout is worth a thousand words

When Joe and I got engaged, my family warned him that I possessed a powerful emotional weapon: the trembling lower lip. No human being had ever been able to resist the lower lip, they told him, and they predicted that he, too, would be helpless before its power.

"You might as well just give in right away when you see it start," my father advised him. "No sense in putting off the inevitable."

But maybe because he had been forewarned, Joe seemed, at least early on, significantly unimpressed with my trembling lower lip, which he called the Pouty Face.

"Is that all you've got?" he would say. "This is what everyone warned me about?" And he would shake his head.

But since then he has developed a healthy respect for the Pouty Face, perhaps due to its tendency, when ignored, to dissolve into a Tearful Face. Not many men can reckon with a woman's Tearful Face, even with all their arsenal of manly weapons.

Joe does not want to get to this stage, therefore he does not want ME to get to this stage. He periodically conducts a reconnaissance of my face, and if he sees the slightest hint that the lower lip is thinking of pushing outward from the upper lip, he goes into action.

One day he suddenly asked, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I said, bewildered, because nothing really was wrong.

He looked accusing. "You're making the Pouty Face. Something's wrong."

"Oh," I said, trying to imagine what my face was doing. "I'm just thinking. This can be a Thinking Face, too."

"No, no, no," he said in agitation. "You can't use the Pouty Face for a Thinking Face. They have to be different. How am I supposed to know when something's wrong if you use the Pouty Face for other things?"

"But the eyes are different in a Thinking Face," I said.

"I'm supposed to look at your EYES, too?" he said, exasperated.

I helpfully suggested carrying a large sign when I am truly pouting, such as ATTENTION: POUTING IN PROGRESS. DISTURB.

"Just get a different face for thinking," he said.

Figures. In a discussion about emotions, I get an assignment.

Into every mystery story a few deaths must fall

I have just finished reading a book, a mystery, that is so sweeping in plot, so far above the predictability of most stories that one is sure the author is destined for bigger and better things, like hopefully retirement.

The plot goes roughly like this:

Character #1 dies.

Character #2 dies.

Character #3 dies.

Character #4 dies.

Characters #5 and 6 die.

Character #7 dies.

Character #8 lives, but is so traumatized by guilt over her inadvertent role in the deaths of Character #3 (and possibly 5 and 6; she cannot be sure) that she wishes she, too, were dead.

Character #9 also lives, but only because of a case of mistaken identity with Character #3. Character #9 demonstrates a remarkable lack of gratefulness for her good fortune.

The author cleverly avoids the trap of creating wholly good or wholly bad characters, which has the effect of making all the deaths a little easier on the reader, because the reader is not sure who to root for anyway, and tends to alternate liking, then unliking, each character.

A good story will often leave the reader wondering, and this book is no exception: The reader wonders why he or she did not, upon ascertaining the author's clear preference for killing off most everyone who wanders onto the pages, simply skip to the last chapter to find out who is left.

There are also a number of unresolved situations at story's end, although possibly there are too few characters left to care. But all is not gloom and doom: The reader is left with the cheerful thought that there are not enough characters left to appear in a sequel.

Pigs 'r us?

Last week we touched on the relative mental abilities of pigs and chickens. This leads us to a related topic: the relative mental abilities of pigs and humans, who at first glance do not seem to have much in common. But there seem to be some remarkable similarities, if you look at research on pigs.

According to researchers, when given the chance pigs enjoy lying around, drinking, smoking, and watching TV (but are not so fond of cleaning). Rumor has it that among their favorite shows is Dirty Jobs, which they see as some sort of Olympic competition, something all self-respecting pigs should aspire to.

Of course, food plays a major role in a pig's life, just as it does in ours. If a pig has reason to believe that another pig has inside knowledge about a stash of food somewhere -- in other words, the first pig is male and the pig with inside knowledge is female -- the first pig will follow the other one in hopes of discovering the food. But the second pig, tired of having to share her spoil, will attempt to get rid of the first pig so she can have the food all to herself.

I think if researchers looked into this more thoroughly, they might find that although it appears that the second pig is unwilling to share her food, perhaps the first pig just didn't look hard enough for it. Or maybe the second pig deliberately hid the food by putting some other, less desirable food in front of the more desirable food, knowing that the first pig would not move it to find out what's behind it.

Pigs are, of course, very conscientious about composting, and love to root around for food in garbage heaps. And in the wild, pigs will industriously scout out food sources that are not necessarily easy to get to. In other words, pigs love a good sale, especially if not a lot of other pigs know about it.

Pigs are industrious in other ways, too. According to researchers, they can roll out rugs. This behavior is particularly seen in conscientious pig mothers, who do not want their spouses and offspring messing up the floors with their dirty feet.

Pigs can even be taught to play video games. Here is where I, personally, am distinguished from the average research swine. I cannot be taught to play video games.

Goodness knows, Joe has tried to teach me. With great patience. But the action on the screen remains totally unrelated to anything I am doing with my hands. Unable to make the joystick do what I want, I resort to shouting at my character on the screen: "No, no, take the other tunnel!" "What do you mean, you didn't see that mountain in front of your plane??" This has about the same effect as when I suggest, even loudly, to other drivers on the road that perhaps they should choose another lane to drive in, or another state.

Of course, pigs are probably rewarded handsomely with something from the garbage heap once they get the hang of playing a video game. Perhaps if someone would reward ME with a shopping trip, I might be able to learn too.

Taxes at home

Ah, spring. The season that always leaves Joe and I wondering why, despite our diligent efforts to file tax items throughout the year in what seems to us a logical manner, when we go to retrieve our tax folder it resembles the inside of a second-grader's school desk.

If you work at home, generally you will be able to deduct some expenses for your home office, your home computer, your home landscaping, your home lawn and driveway, etc. Yes, landscaping may be a legitimate deduction if you regularly meet with clients at your home.

Unfortunately I never thought to take such a deduction while I was working at home. True, most our landscaping consists of large walnuts left on our porch by thoughtful squirrels, and my only regular clients were angry squirrels demanding to know what I had done with their walnuts, but that deduction might have come in handy. And although we have no lawn and no driveway, that wouldn't deter SOME people from deducting expenses for them.

I WILL, however, be seriously thinking of hiring one of the many neighborhood dogs to help out with this year's landscaping. At least one taxpayer has attempted to claim the family dog as an independent contractor for the dog's assistance in pulling a wagon while landscaping efforts were being undertaken. I'm sure a dog would come in very handy while I work outside -- fetching the watering can, barking at slugs, restoring the walnuts to their original porch location, etc.

Although the government does not appear to keep statistics on unemployment rates among animals, there must be SOME dogs in our area who would appreciate the chance to earn some extra doggie treats. And maybe one who could even help us with our tax folder.

What if sheep were smarter than people?

Today we examine an interesting philosophical "what-if" question regarding sheep. In the early days of sheep, they shed their fleece naturally. But what if they hadn't shed on their own, and they had had to wait around for people to figure out that they could shear them? How long would that have taken? And more important, what would the sheep have done in the meantime?

Would their sides just keep growing thicker and thicker? I imagine them growing into a giant cotton ball and just sort of rolling around, bumping into each other occasionally. It might have felt like an ever-growing, never-ending pregnancy, only with a blanket smothering them. Could they even see? If someone in outer space had been looking at our planet, would they have concluded that on certain parts of Earth it was always winter, because all they could see was white fluff?

If sheep had depended on people to shear them, and the people weren't getting it, the sheep probably would have tried numerous ways to communicate this.

Claude the sheep: Baaa! Baaa!*
Clueless person: Oh, look how cute! He wants to play!

*Get this wool off me, you idiot. I'm roasting.

The sheep might have kept "playing," nudging people, following them around, baaing all the time. When that didn't work, the sheep might have fetched some shears and dropped them at people's feet, hoping they would get the hint. They might even have put on a little show for the the people, pantomiming the shearing process.

Finally, with all other options exhausted, the sheep might have been driven in desperation to arrange their cotton ball bodies into a message on a hillside: FOR GOODNESS' SAKE SHEAR US!

Clueless person 1: Look! The sheep are gathering on the hill! It's a sign!
Clueless person 2: What does it mean?
Clueless person 1: I have no idea.

When humans did eventually figure out that they could harvest the wool from sheep, FINALLY the sheep would have been able to do what they had wanted to do all along: pack their bags and head to Aruba.

On the intelligence of pigs

Trends change quickly yet predictably in the world of hair fashion, like exactly every 6 to 8 weeks. I know this because that is generally how often I go to the hair salon, and whenever I go, my stylist informs me of the latest trend, which is never what I currently have, even though at my prior appointment I was brought up to date on the latest fashion.

This time she informed me that the trend now for women is toward a more round look. According to Joe, this may be termed the gumball look, which is what I reminded him of when I got home after my appointment. He was concerned that the gumball look was very short.

"Did you know that pigs are very smart?" I said in an attempt to divert his attention.

I had picked up this bit of information from Margaret while she was making me look like a gumball.

"Pigs are very intelligent," she announced. "So we've stopped eating pork. Pigs know when it's time to go to the..." She hesitated, reluctant to name the place of their demise. "Well, anyway, I just can't eat anything that's that smart.

"Now chickens," she said, waving her scissors around in an apparent imitation of an unintelligent, aimlessly wandering chicken, "they're different. We do eat a lot of chicken. You look at a chicken, and they don't seem very smart."

She paused, scissors hovering close to my soon-to-be gumball head. "Well, I hope they're not smart," she said, suddenly worried that she might be underestimating the abilities of the poultry mind.

I agreed that chickens did not seem very smart, although privately I wondered if, to be on the safe side, we should stick to eating broccoli.

And, if I am smart, I will not let my hair be cut like a gumball again. But there's little chance of that. The trend has probably already changed.

Vive l'English!

In honor of April Fool's Day, I should make up a good story that misleads people into thinking it's true, but since that is pretty much what at least some people believe this blog does every day, it doesn't seem like a very creative idea.

So let's talk about the French, who are always grumbling about Americans, and about the English language taking over the world, by which the French mean France. They have put out a call for suggestions on replacing certain English words that are polluting the French language (some examples are Americans, great, are), and to top it off, this call has gone out to schoolchildren. The French figure that anything a six-year-old could come up with during recess HAS to be better than English.

Public employees in France will be required to use the new words. And what are some of the words that will be replaced? Buzz, talk, as in talk radio, and tuning, as in souping up one's car. I was a public employee for rather a long time, and my fellow public employees and I somehow never had the opportunity, on the job, to discuss souping up our cars. (This perhaps explains why so many of us left the public sector, but that is a different story.) But maybe these conversations come up more often among the French.

We might be tempted to retaliate and replace all the words in English that come from French, but since about 60% of our words have some French roots, we might find ourselves drastically reduced in communication tools. We could be deep in conversation, hammering home a certain point, when all of a sudden the word we were going to use is gone, and we start desperately motioning and drawing little pictures to try to fill in the gap. Pictionary would suddenly become not a game, but an essential communication tool used by children and CEOs alike.

This making up of words is of course not new. Some centuries ago, keepers of the language declared English to be an imperfect language and thus made up new English words based on the more perfect Latin. Joe is not surprised, as he thinks ALL of the English language is made up, at random, with no regard whatsoever to any logic. And it was probably done by the French.