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.