How many husbands does it take to put together an Ikea headboard?

I'm in a very privileged minority in the western world. I'm having an agreeable divorce. One where neither party blames the other for everything gone wrong in their respective worlds. One where we're actually able to stay friends.

I remember and old friend saying to me, many years ago, that she and I always had pleasant experiences wherever we went because we were both pleasant to the people around us.

While I might not have been pleasant all the time, I have tried to keep in mind that it's much nicer to be smiled at than to be scowled at, and I have tried for the most part to be pleasant to everyone I encounter.

Even my husband. (Otherwise known as "Hubby" in this blog.)

Sunday, Hubby took me to Ikea so I could buy a piece of furniture. Brought it to my new apartment, unloaded it, opened the boxes... and to our mutual horror discovered we'd got the wrong box for part of the set.

So Monday, he came here after work, loaded the wrong box into his car, drove me back to Ikea... etc etc, and when we got back here, for the price of take-out chicken, put it all together for me. Took till after ten p.m., and not once did he utter a single complaint.

Sweet man. Well, his loving and generous nature was never a problem...

Anyway, while sitting and watching him put the thing together (the instuction booklet is 28 pages long...) I was reflecting that there was, in fact, no "Rocket Science" to what he was doing. Once he was more than half way through the project, I could look at the 200 or so fiddly bits on the table and start to see patterns. At one point I even got up and sorted them into their respective groups. Hubby, of course, had taken one look at the mound and immediately discerned their various uses, but I am not so gifted as he in these sort of matters. I would throw out my flippant "it must be on the "Y" chromosome..." but there are other instances where I have the upper hand discerning what purpose little fiddly things serve, and he is the proverbial fish out of water.

No, it seems the only feasible explanation is simple mental laziness in this case. One drill, one screwdriver. A pile of jumbled boards, and 3000 or so metal and wooden pieces... Simple! Except that, for me, on my lonesome, it would have been "Rocket Science."

Thank you, Hubby.

In praise of my poor, longsuffering hubby...

It occurred to me recently that some people might think my poor hubby would be justified in putting me through the wood chipper (as he has frequently offered).

I would just like to take a few moments to praise my longsuffering hubby, butt of all my jokes, straight man, and bickering opponent for 13 years now.

I know you won't believe me, but he loves the stories I tell about him.

See, he's got what they call a "sense of humor."

Like me, he doesn't care if the joke is about him, as long as it's funny. Wait a minute, let me clarify that - I don't care if the joke is about ME, either, so long as it's funny. Yes, I also don't care if the joke is about him....

He's a good man, a quiet drunk, a killer scrabble player, a man born with a silver ________ in each hand. (Insert name of any tool is the world.) He's also an insane Quebec driver - you should SEE the startled looks on the faces of the pedestrians! He's Irish, that's why he's so stubborn, opinionated, and he thinks he's right - ALL THE TIME.

But he loves deeply and hardly ever complains. And he's the world's most patient man.

He's had to be.