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In real life, reality of love is all about perspective

An inexplicable affair of the heart:

His Side: Lucy made a big to-do, asking me, the kids, probably even the dog, if we would rather have a salad or grapefruit as a side item with dinner. She'd found some grapefruits in the produce drawer that she didn't remember buying and couldn't place a date on, and you know how women are about expiration dates. She was bent on getting that stuff off the shelf and eaten before it went bad.

When we all sat down at the table, citrus halves sprinkled with sugar next to our plates, I took one look and diplomatically asked, "Are you sure this is grapefruit?" Even Mr. Magoo could have seen she was pawning off oranges as their bittersweet cousin.

But not Lucy. She can't ever admit she's wrong. Irritated, she insisted, "Yes. Smell it."

But instead of letting me smell it, she grabbed one of our kids' bowls and blabbered, "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm sure this is grapefruit," and sniffed it herself.

I can't remember what else she made for dinner, but it was probably burned, so I had to eat the mystery citrus. That doesn't mean I kept my mouth shut, though. "This tastes awfully sweet for grapefruit. And it's not the right color. Or size."

She is so hardheaded; she smelled every kid's alleged grapefruit, plus mine, before ever hinting that she might have made a mistake.

The woman couldn't tell an orange from a grapefruit if someone labeled them with a black Sharpie marker!

My Side: My husband won't hire anybody to do anything he thinks he can do himself. You can imagine the backlog of house projects around here. Anyway, he decided to install our new dishwasher, the one I had to practically Indian leg-wrestle him in public to buy.

On top of that, it bothers him if I make myself productive somewhere else in the house while he's doing a project. So for two nights I watched him saw, drill, and cuss the new dishwasher into the old dishwasher's slot. For two nights I helped him locate the dropped screws, the missing wire caps, and the pliers that he set down on the floor next to him, but couldn't find less than two minutes later.

Usually, when we get to the part of the task requiring me to give him instructions, he orders me to quit hovering over him. This event always coincides with my commitment to seeing the project through. "You've got to flip the switch in the electrical box," I told him when he started doing some tinkering that made me nervous.

He stomped away. A few minutes later the room went dark and he returned, led into the kitchen by a flashlight beam, and began gathering his materials. Satisfied, I retreated.

Minutes later, in a frenzy of slinging the unopened instruction manual and kicking the toolbox, he yelled, "Lucy! Where's my flashlight!"

Returning to the kitchen, I spotted its unmistakable glow inside the cabinet under the sink.

The man couldn't find a bright light in a pitch black room!

Seven-year-old Daughter's Journal Entry: My dad gets a shower first and my mom gets hers last. My dad has an I-pod and my mom doesn't have an I-pod. My dad has curly hair and my mom has straight hair.

My mom and dad are always the opposite.

Love is blind.

Happy Valentines Day!

(Lucy Adams is a syndicated columnist, freelance writer, and author of If Mama Don't Laugh It Ain't Funny. She lives in Thomson. Lucy invites readers to send comments to lucybgoosey@aol.com and visit her web site, www.IfMama.com.)



Web posted on Thursday, February 12, 2009













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