You are entering a time warp

Although science would try to convince us that time is constant, and that any particular block of time is equal to any other block of time of the same amount, with all due respect to scientists, science is just wrong. It is well-known, for instance, that time warps occur in at least two common, everyday locales: the workplace, and womens' public restrooms.

On a typical workday, time changes once you enter your place of labor, such that while it seems that outside the building various kingdoms must be rising and falling and global climactic changes taking place, inside the building it is still not even lunchtime. One is stupefied, when one finally emerges at the end of the day, to find that things are pretty much as one left them earlier that day.

Joe asserts -- and no doubt many husbands would agree -- that the opposite type of time warp occurs when a woman enters a public restroom. During the time a woman is in the restroom, doing womanly things, the husband outside languishes, feeling his body gradually descend into old age and decay, and desperately making out his will in his mind for fear he will not get the chance to put it into writing. He despairs, knowing he will never see his own children grow to adulthood. Indeed, he firmly believes that by the time his wife emerges from the restroom, his children will be older than he is. When the woman does finally emerge, she cannot understand why her husband has fallen asleep again, when she was only in the restroom for five minutes.

Although, as the writer of Psalm 90 points out, a thousand years is to the Lord as the passing of a day, for workers and waiting husbands the reality is quite the opposite: A single day is like the passing of a thousand years.

Note: For those of you who have been following the saga of the Winter Pansy Squatters vs. Prissy Princess Gardener, we regret to report that drastic measures were taken earlier this week to remove the accused squatters from the gardening premises and "relocate" them, making way for the new flower residents, who presently reside in cramped quarters on the porch. Security has been beefed up in the immediate area in anticipation of protests from the community, although the community of late has shown more interest in other matters, such as painting the restored (but fortunately non-working) outhouse.

The gluten-free empire

It was all perfectly planned.

With Joe now eating gluten free, desserts have become something of a scarcity in our house. It is true that gluten-free foods and recipes are better than they used to be, in the sense that thinner cardboard tastes better than thicker cardboard (although this has not been scientifically proven). But my plan was to perfect some gluten-free dessert recipes -- irresistible things with names like Quadruple Chocolate Chip Fat Clothes Brownies -- and offer my wares to a number of stores and cafes in the area, all of which would immediately fall at my feet and beg to buy them and sell them in their establishments. In short, I would build a Gluten-Free Baking Empire.

How are the mighty fallen!

These modest plans were all made before even a single gluten-free item had emerged from my oven, and when one finally did emerge, I had the vague feeling that the Empire was not going to be built in a day.

The banana bread, for instance, more resembled Banana Goo, and would have made a perfect gluten-free baby food, had I been interested in building a Gluten-Free Baby Food Empire. Not sure I wanted to go this route, I tried the banana bread again.

The results, though better, did nothing to advance my Empire, but I cheered myself with the thought that it was not my fault.

It was the pan's fault, for being too small.

It was the bananas' fault, for being too chunky.

It was the oven's fault, for not being able to automatically correct itself when I put it on the wrong temperature. I am SURE that Martha Stewart's oven is able to do this, not that Martha Stewart ever puts the oven on the wrong temperature. But the point is that her oven probably could, if the occasion ever arose, perform this service.

And then -- joy of joys -- I found out that there was something wrong with the recipe. Banana Goo really wasn't my fault.

A faulty recipe wasn't going to stand between me and my Empire, so I tried some double chocolate chip cookies. What could go wrong with double chocolate chip cookies?

Plenty, it turned out.

This recipe called for coconut oil, which is not only used in cooking but can also be slathered on one's body for the purpose of moisturizing. According to Wikipedia, coconut oil is traditionally ground in mills powered by bulls. I admit to having some qualms, as I was measuring out the coconut oil, about using a body product that has been ground by bulls in my baking, but I tried not to think about it.

Unfortunately the coconut oil did not lend itself to being measured. Although it is reportedly a solid at room temperature, in my kitchen it slowly started to melt into a river of thick liquid, with the result that it would not cooperate when coaxed into the measuring cup. Instead of packing down nicely when pressed with a spoon, it squooshed out the other side of the cup. The amount that finally made it into the bowl probably in no way resembled the amount I was supposed to put in, but it is impossible to know for sure.

The cookies spread over the entire pan and joined forces, creating Square Siamese Paper-Thin Cookies. In an effort to disguise them, I crushed them up and used them for a crust in an ice cream pie. I wondered vaguely, as I pressed the crumbs into the pie pan, how freezing would affect crumbs that had so much oil in them they were oozing. But thoughts of my Empire filled my mind, and I soldiered on.

The ice cream pie was edible, even tasty. Yes, it required a knife to cut through the granite-hard crust, but gluten-free foods are generally not known for their light, fluffy texture anyway.

Luckily, coconut oil can also be used for "soothing the head," according to Wikipedia. Good thing I have some left over.

The madness of leisure

Badly needing a getaway for some relaxation, we headed to the Pennsylvania countryside recently. Here, we thought, we could relax, slow down, take life at a leisurely pace.

And then we met our innkeeper.

A petite flurry of activity, she heaped on us not only great food but idea after idea of what to do in the area. An entire antique desk outside our room was filled with brochures, every one of which was pointed out to us with enthusiasm. Were we outdoor people? There was a nature area nearby. Did we like tours? We could tour the quaint countryside, or an Amish home. Antiques? Outlets? Restaurants? They had them all. We could even visit a chocolate museum ("It's kinda small," she said apologetically) or a pretzel factory.

We really wanted to shop, we said.

Ah! This brought on another flurry of brochures, maps, and advice. If we wanted to go to the cute shops in the nearby town -- which we did -- we'd better hurry! They close early.

We said we wanted to go to a flea market and antique shops one day. It's supposed to rain that afternoon, she warned us. Make sure you do the outdoor sales in the morning!

Oh, and these stores aren't open on Sunday!

But THIS place is ONLY open on Sunday!

And some places might not be open on the holiday!

We nodded as if we were actually taking this all in. And for the first two days we became a flurry of activity ourselves. We would be eating lunch when one of us would suddenly remember that the Shaker shop closed at 3, and off we would dash to the Shaker shop. We ate dinner only after everything else closed. Sometimes we misjudged our time. Once, while enjoying an ice cream break, we were dismayed to realize that we had missed the window for visiting the chocolate museum.

By the third day we were exhausted. So we avoided the lure of still more shops and headed for the countryside, where, one of the ubiquitous brochures promised, we could take a leisurely drive and observe several well-preserved covered bridges. Just our pace.

Driving in the countryside IS quite leisurely, unless -- because one is following a map of dubious accuracy -- one accidentally sees rather more of the country than one intended, and one's stomach begins to protest this business of taking one's time. But the brochure described several quaint inns along our drive at which we could stop and refresh ourselves with a bit of local fare, and we looked forward to dining at one of these establishments.

The brochure neglected to warn us that they would all be closed on a holiday.

"What is WRONG with these little towns?" I said as we passed the fourth closed inn. "Just because it's a holiday, everything CLOSES?"

Maybe we are not cut out for a leisurely life after all.

Do you take blueberries?

One can learn a great deal by going away into the wilds of a state like Pennsylvania, where roads and houses and whole towns are swallowed up by trees and hills. One learns, for instance, just how comforting one's spouse can be in anxious situations, such as while driving in the pitch blackness through a thick forest, where creatures of the imagination live in actuality. In such a situation a spouse might seek to reassure one by saying something like, "Here's where I remember every scary movie I ever watched...like the one where a couple drives into a dark, dark forest and is never seen again..."

The spouse quickly learns that the definition of comfort varies greatly among individuals.

One can also learn a great deal from the locals, and from non-locals, such as the couple from New York who stayed at the same B&B as we did. They informed us that bartering is big in New York, and that money is going the way of the typewriter there.

"Like," the woman said, "we know someone who found a good dog walker -- which by the way is a very lucrative business in New York -- and offered to build the dog walker a Web site instead of paying her to walk the dog. Bartering is huge."

This couple had recently ordered, through an admittedly dubious Web site, a blueberry plant that could be grown in one's home and was purported to bear blueberries perpetually. Their idea was that, since they possess no helpful skills that can be bartered for desirable items or services, they could harvest the berries and use them as bartering tools. They envisioned a vast blueberry empire someday, one that would be self-sustaining and would possibly necessitate a move to larger quarters.

Here our B&B host mentioned that she, too, had ordered a blueberry plant. "That was five years ago, and I'm still waiting for it," she said.

This somewhat dampened the couple's enthusiasm, although New Yorkers are not easily discouraged, and they remained confident that we would someday hear of their blueberry empire.

Later while we were antiquing, we realized that the charge cards that define our daily spending were more worthless as currency for buying antiques than missing blueberry plants. We are not accustomed to carrying cash with us, not even change, and we stood helpless before a little garden bench that was calling out to us to take it home. We faced the prospect of a bleak life without its charms, when Joe remembered the bartering.

"We have this rocking chair in the car..." he said to the woman selling the bench.

"No bartering, absolutely!" she said, apparently not up on New York ways.

And so we were forced to purchase the bench in a very primitive manner, by going to the nearby ATM and extracting cold, hard cash and handing it over to the woman.

I guess we won't be ordering any blueberry plants just yet.

An interview with the Pansies

Today we bring you an excerpt from an interview with the winter pansies growing in the Prissy Princess's garden. There is some controversy over whether the pansies have outstayed their welcome.

Interviewer: Today we welcome a community of winter pansies who have been accused of squatting on land that is intended for other flowers. Welcome, pansies.

Head Pansy: Thank you. We're glad to be here and tell our side of the story.

Interviewer: First tell us a little about what you, as winter pansies, are, exactly.

Head Pansy: Certainly. We get planted in the fall, rather than in the spring like our cousins. We don't die in the winter -- although we do sort of take a little rest; I mean, who wants to always be cheery when it's cold and cloudy out? -- and then we explode like crazy in the spring. In fact we are (if I might say so) the most stunning spring flowers in the garden. (A smattering of applause is heard.)

Interviewer: And when do you -- let me put this delicately -- leave for that Great Garden in the sky?

Head Pansy (evasively): Oh, it varies, sometimes earlier, sometimes later.

I: Can you be more specific?

HP: No.

I: We understand that your gardener was given to understand that you would bloom throughout the winter, even peeking up through the snow, but that you were a little lackluster in this effort.

HP (bristling): Well, we can't help what she was told. It was cold this winter. It was hard keeping up our color all that time. (Other pansies nod.)

I: Let's move on to what's happened this spring. We understand that under the arrangement you had with your gardener, you were to bloom during the winter and spring, and then when planting season rolled around you were to voluntarily withdraw to make room for the spring and summer annuals and perennials. Is this correct?

HP: Well, she may have been told that we would 'voluntarily withdraw' by the guy who planted us for her. But we never made any promises.

I: Nevertheless, the gardener alleges that you are squatting on a patch that is no longer yours, and that you are preventing her from beginning her summer garden. What do you say to those allegations?

HP: With all due respect, we haven't exactly seen many other flowers lined up to take our place. (Laughter) And from what we hear, we're the best thing that ever happened to this garden. It's never been so colorful. So we figure the gardener will never toss us out as long as we're still blooming. (A chorus of assents is heard from the other pansies.)

I: So you refuse to vacate the land and move on to the Great Garden?

HP: I think it's safe to say we're gonna just hang out for a while yet. See how things go. (Looks around at other pansies, who nod in agreement.) Haven't heard a bulldozer coming to force us out. (Laughter is cut short by the sound of an engine starting up. The pansies make a great rush for the exit.)

I (Speaking loudly over the sound of the engine): Thanks for joining us today, ladies and gentlemen. Our guests today have been the Squatting Winter Pansies, although this may have been your last glimpse of them...tune in later!

The new reality

In speaking with other wives, I find that two subjects of conversation frequently arise: husbands, and trash cans. These two subjects are generally mentioned together in the same conversation, and are usually understood to be in opposition to each other; that is, the higher the household trash becomes, the more disinclination arises on the part of husbands to remove it from the household.

This situation has led one of my co-workers to take up betting, a pastime she shares with her young daughter, in which they bet on how long it will take Dad to notice that the trash has left the confines of the trash can and is now growing toward the ceiling, down the stairs, into the garage, into the neighbors' yard, etc. So far, whoever has bet on the garbage has been a big winner.

The betting is not confined to the garbage situation. This co-worker was dismayed when a friend, who thought she was doing a good deed, hefted a heavy bag of mulch off my co-worker's walkway in the yard. "I left that there on purpose," she said. "We were betting to see how long it would take my husband to move it."

Despite considerable discussion among wives, no logical explanation has been found for the seeming inability of husbands to notice, without reminders, such chores around the house. It is Joe's fervent belief, however, that the fault lies with wives, who in some mysterious, womanly fashion, cause men to -- and I quote -- "lose all their brains" when they enter the matrimonial state. "You wives just line us all up at the top of a hill and send us sprawling down. We're helpless to think of anything ourselves."

From her own experiences, my co-worker has developed an idea for a new reality show, which would feature husbands in a familiar home environment. The men would be responsible for completing certain household tasks, but would not be told what those tasks are. The challenge, of course, is that they must discover, for themselves, what jobs they are to complete, and then complete them. The appeal of such a show for viewers, who of course would all be women, is to watch how long this process takes.

My co-worker is betting that this could be a multi-season show.

The great escape

To celebrate our upcoming anniversary and holiday weekend -- but mostly because Joe, having finished his semester of classes, has recently rejoined society -- we set about searching the Web for a nice little place to visit. Our requirements were not too great, as when Joe is in school our outings consist of things like going to Target for toilet paper, so pretty much anyplace is exciting to us, particularly if toilet paper is already provided.

"Oooo, look at this cute little town," I said of one place in Pennsylvania. "It's got all these quaint shops."

Joe peered at the photos and shrugged. "It looks just like our town. It'd be like going down the street for three days."

"But we've never been to these shops," I pointed out, with a woman's fine distinction between various retail establishments. "Besides, we don't have a chocolate cafe. Or a pretzel factory." Realizing this last would not appeal to someone who can't eat pretzels, I added encouragingly, "Maybe they have gluten-free pretzels for you."

He did not seem overly grateful for the pretzel factory's potential generosity on his behalf.

But he did take it upon himself to locate some lodging nearby, and his enthusiasm increased considerably upon finding a somewhat more manly B&B than we traditionally stay in. I call it The Lodge, although it is modest in size and there are no obvious displays, in the photos on the Web site, of animal heads on the walls, although one can never be sure of these things until one actually sees a place in person.

Joe filled out the online reservation request, answering the questions put to him faithfully and to the best of his ability. They were the standard questions, all fairly straightforward, such as "How did you hear about us?" "How long do you plan to stay?" "How do you feel about animal heads on the walls?" "Do your spouse's views on this subject differ from yours?" etc.

He was also asked the reason for our visit. I thought he might answer, "So my wife can stop talking about this supposedly wonderful pretzel factory and chocolate cafe," but he merely wrote: "Get away."

I imagined the proprietor reading this in some alarm, believing us to be criminals fleeing the scene of our crime and the prospect of capture and punishment, seeking a safe haven -- in a little Amish enclave where we would just blend in with everyone else -- until everything blew over.

I further imagined the proprietor, upon finding out that Joe requires gluten-free foods, thinking that here was his chance to aid justice, to turn over these dastardly criminals to the authorities, through a simple scheme: Serve Joe pretzels -- perhaps as a topping to a breakfast casserole -- that are not gluten free, thereby disabling him and allowing the authorities time to come and haul us away to pay for whatever it was we had done.

Unfortunately for the proprietor, the worst this scheme would do would be to cause Joe some minor pain, which would certainly not be enough to detain us if we were criminals. We could simply make our escape to the pretzel factory and hide there.

As long as it had toilet paper.