You’re born and you die and in between there’s laundry. That’s the married woman’s mantra. Quotidian, mundane, bo-o-oring? Sure. But if I were to ponder the meaning of life, the laundry would just pile up. And for all you vertically-challenged people, you understand that laundry cannot just accumulate horizontally. No. It grows upwards until you can’t take it anymore and have to take it down to size.

Now, let’s explore the real bane of my existence – dishes. Do you realize dishes proliferate? I mean, sometimes there’s a ten-dish pile-up in my sink when I could have sworn that I only put in five. So what do you think happens? I know sometimes they’re fruit-ful but that doesn’t mean they have to multiply. First of all, there is no rubbernecking in my sink -dishes are not allowed to fraternize. So each item is in a separate corner. But when my back is turned, does the fork form a conga line as the spoons make like castanets and the knife plays the saucer like a tambourine? Okay. So I’m a little fanciful. Then you explain it! All I know is that I put them in a line up when I leave the kitchen, pass back in forth in front of them like a drill sergeant and then take a bathroom break. The next thing I know they’ve doubled.

Believe it or not, I cook and eat according to how many dishes a dish will generate. Lasagna is basically a one-panner (get with the lingo) but vegetable soup? Forget it. Knives for chopping, the food processor, one pot for sautéing and one for boiling it up. Then there’s the soup bowl and spoons and a ladle. Please, unthinkable. I have convinced my husband he is simply destroying his health by eating all those vegetables in one sitting, kind of like taking too many vitamins. The body can’t tolerate it and there’s bound to be a backlash, it will have to eject them somehow.

Let’s progress to vacuuming. I’ve never understood the purpose of the vacuum. Yes, I know it sucks up dirt and dust but it cannot eliminate the dust that accumulates on the vacuum. Ironic, no? Not to mention the dirt that festers in the vacuum from all the vacuuming. So I just let my vacuum sit in the corner collecting dust. Sometimes it does eye me balefully, but I will not give in. Because dust is everywhere. You say to yourself “just the living room,” and then the bedroom needs it, the foyer and “where will it all end!” If the dust mites happen to enjoy a safe sanctuary in the Kreger home, c’est la vie. I already include them as dependents on my W-2 form. And listen, I don’t disturb them and they don’t disturb me. We have a mutually congenial relationship.

(1) Secrets

Page Two

by: Chave Kreger

Now we come to the piece de la resistance – putting things away. My husband and I have a tacit understanding. He leaves things out and I put them away. Amazingly, he’s never thanked me for keeping up my end of the bargain. The thing is we have a one bedroom and there are only so many drawers, closets and cabinets. So I have devised a special system I call “creative caretaking.” His “honey, where is my investment portfolio,” can often produce a “you”re sitting on it.’ “Huh?” “Yes, sweetheart, just unzip the cushion of the chair you’re sitting on and you will find a whole new filing cabinet. Our stocks, health insurance, life insurance and a copy of your mother’s living will.” “So that’s why I haven’t been able to sit normally for the past couple of days. I thought I had bursitis.” Men!

“And, Chave, while you’re at it, where is my old address book?” “Look in your blue jacket. I think it’s the inside left pocket. No, I keep our phone bills there. Better check the back pocket on the matching pants. No, that’s right. That’s where I put the pictures of our honeymoon. Oh, yeah, now I remember. They’re in the right pocket of your blue vest sweater. That’s it. Unless I put them in my purple sweatshirt. Wait, I may have stuffed them into my rabbit’s fur muffler, except that I think that one had all the warranties of our electronic equipment. Oh well, that’s gotta give you a clue.” “Chave!” “Okay. Just let me get the list of where I keep everything.” It might be in my blue robe, but if it’s not, then it’s definitely in my copy of Dickens’ “Great Expectations.” (clever, huh?) Or in the spice rack after the lemon pepper….”

So what is going to do, kill me? Then, who would do the housework?

(2) He Said, She Said, and I Had to Listen

By: Chave Kreger

I remember when I was single. All I wanted was a ring. I didn’t care what kind (but it had to be a diamond) or how big it was (as long as it wasn’t small) or what kind of setting (provided the prospective groom didn’t embarrass me among my girlfriends). There were only three things that counted: location, location, location. That is, left hand, third finger from the thumb.

Now I’m married and the ring is a thing of the past. (Well, actually I am looking forward to that diamond anniversary ring but that’s another story.) And I really cannot understand those eager, overanxious, ring-obsessed single women who whine, whine, whine a whole day about men and then complain how not one of the rotten, commitmentphobic, cheap Momma’s boys they are acquainted with has ever popped the question. I’ve asked, very stupidly I’ll admit, “if he’s so rotten, why do you want him to propose?” The answer: the ring. Don’t tell me, you didn’t figure that out. I sometimes think when they refer to one as an S.O.B. while they moon over him, the initials must be an acronym for Son of Bloomingdales. How else can he be blame-worthy for not coming through? His parents own Bloomingdales and he doesn’t want to go into the family business. Or he won’t step foot inside because he wants to make it on his own. Then I have to agree with them- what a wuss!

The point I am making that I seemed to have lost along the way, is that being single stinks. Especially for us married folk who don’t want to hear that insistent wail, like an ambulance siren but this one doesn’t move along, it stays in place and can go on for hours. So what can I do? Commiserate? I don’t think so. I have places to go (the kitchen), people to see (the refrigerator repairman), things to do (watch my soap). So I do the unthinkable, the unimaginable, take the thinking person’s last resort – matchmaking.

I used to watch reruns of “The Dating Game.” It resembles a Barbara Walter’s special in that the questions are so similar. If you were a tree, which one would you be? I am happy to report that my spouse is a maple, knock on wood. He’s strong but sweet on the inside. All right, I’m a bit of a “sap” for maple. I sure as heck would never want an oak, tough and unyielding – the strong and silent John Wayne type. And I would never stand for a willow – the Boy Georges of the tree world, if you know what I mean. Well, anyway the difference between “The Dating Game” and the “Barbara Walter’s” show is that the object of one of them was to make the interviewee cry. Guess which one? If you said “Barbara” you’re on the straight and narrow; but, if you said “The Game” you think “out of the box.” The Dating game also gave the bachelors or bachelorettes who weren’t picked a consolation prize, like a year’s supply of single-serving t.v. dinners – kind of a frozen billboard stating, “loser, lock lips with this.”

(2) So anyway, my goal was to establish a kind of one-one-one Dating Game where all four parties would be the winners – the guy, the girl, me and my husband – and only one party would be the loser – the telephone company. A happy couple cuts down on the telephone bill. Unfortunately, there is Kreger’s Law. You know Murphy’s Law: If anything can go wrong it will. That’s nothing. Kreger’s Law has it beat by a mile: Even if nothing can go wrong it will. You get an attractive professional man – a lawyer, smart, astute, well read – and pair him with an attractive professional woman – a college professor, studious, academically inclined. And you know what you get – tinnitus. I was thinking of applying for an unlisted ear. Do you know why? She’s a woman and he’s a man and opposites detract. You heard me.

A whole day for a week it was, “he said..,” and then “she said..” I did them both a favor by tuning out. It kept me empathetic. The truth is I just don’t cut it as a matchmaker. There should be an S.A.T. (Socializing Aptitude Test) dispensed to all prospective matchmakers before they embark on a misadventure. Because the sum of all the parts – age, education, family – can be equal and they still don’t add up. Either that or I cannot compute.

So now I do what any self-respecting married woman with a circle of single friends does? I take the phone off the hook. Now, that’s my idea of a Happy Ending.

(3) When Mr. Right is Wrong

By: Chave Kreger

I knew the minute I met my husband that he was the “one,” the only “one,” the “one” I had been waiting for all my life and would live all my life with “til death (or the in-laws) do us part,” G-D forbid. The thing is there is nothing in the marriage certificate about equal rights. Because there is no such thing as equality in a marriage. The woman is always right. Indubitably. Now, I say this objectively, not simply as a woman, who really is always right. I look at my marriage with the impartial eye, from a distance, like a scientist peering at a petris dish of marital DNA through a microscope, and I”m still right. The problem is that my husband doesn’t realize it. Well, that’s because he’s wrong. And what he doesn’t understand is that when you’re wrong, your vision is obscured. You are standing in your own way and can’t see reason, even when reason is within walking distance and wearing a burgundy skirt, a peach colored sweater, hot pink lipstick and has her teeth bared and her claws outstretched. Maybe reason should be dressed up like a WWF contender and regularly challenge, “you wanna fight me, bring it on..”

Truthfully, it’s not important who’s right. The important thing is who’s wrong. And I cannot in all honesty say that it’s me. You see I come from a long line of women who were always right and the legacy has been passed down to me. All my life I heard my mother say to my father, “you know I’m right,” and he would shake his head pitifully knowing he was outnumbered – by words and female ancestry. And, I still remember my grandmother saying to my grandfather, “why won’t you admit I’m right? “You know I’m right and it’s killing you. Save yourself an angina attack and admit it. Admit it already.” Unfortunately he didn’t always have a chance before the EMT arrived. A stroke can be such a fight-diffuser. But during recovery, he did usually admit his wife had been right. Although that’s under sedatives and I’m not sure that counts.

Now, my husband is aware that my female lineage predisposes me to being right and he still won’t give in without a fight. Take the phone bill. Please, before my husband finds it. Can you believe he blames me when it’s over a $100? What should I do with all the people who call? Give them the silent treatment? Pretend I’m not home – like he does – and then act as if the machine is broken when they accidentally manage to catch you on the street? No, I return my calls like a good, socially conscious individual. I return every call, sometimes two or three times until I get it right. Sometimes I call a friend in anticipation of her call simply because I am that type of gal. But does he appreciate it? Has he ever uttered a word of appreciation for my building a bridge between us and all the outsiders? No, and no. And no again. I just threw that it for good measure.

(3) Then there’s the grocery bill. On occasion it’s a little high. My brother stops by. He likes my cooking. My friends drop in for a little “nosh.” My neighbors come over to “shmooze” and require a little nourishment. Notice how the word “little” crops up repeatedly in my food monologue. Because I really don’t overfeed them. I give them just enough. Okay, some of the afore-mentioned are a little portly and require more than the minimum daily requirement of vitamins, but I’m good. I’m telling you. Food is the great equalizer and there’s nothing that can spread goodwill and peace for all mankind like my peanut butter chocolate chip cookies. So what should I do, institute a food freeze? Maybe I should only buy enough for me and my husband and forget about friendship.

Then there’s the old “your mother calls too much” argument. He thinks she calls to remind me that I’m right and to reaffirm my allegiance to my great heritage. That’s not true. Sometimes she calls to tell me she was right and I was wrong about something. That’s because she’s a generation ahead of me and has gotten the hang of it better than I have. And at other times she calls to remind me that I’m right and to reaffirm my fealty to all my female predecessors. But not all the time. You see how wrong he is?

So the question remains, “how do you get Mr. Right to admit he’s wrong?” I’m still working on it. But when I’ve figured it out, I’ll be eligible for the Nobel Peace Prize for sure. Stay tuned.

(4) Remote Patrol

By: Chave Kreger

Channel surfing has replaced baseball as the number one pastime of males between the ages of 0-Death. Why, you ask? Because it’s legal, there’s no minimum age requirement, no assembly necessary, no AA batteries needed and, best of all, it’s a great way to annoy the “little woman.”

The minute my husband lands in the front door, he hightails it for the remote and grabs hold like a sheriff trying to outdraw the bad guy