Another piece of uber-sugary lovin' from the author of "10 Ways to Turn Fluff into Profit."

Variations on a Point

(Or, solving divergences through curtain rods)

There's nothing worse than a victorious spouse. Honestly, she's got a smirk that can shrivel a man's… well, it stings at any rate. And she doesn't let up, not when she knows she's right. I'm told other husbands manage to cling to a molecule of their dignity in these circumstances, but apparently they're drinking a different brew than me. But damn, she's sexy in triumph.

We live at junctions, Nat and I. And the crossroads we've run into aren't listed on Mapquest. Some couples have their course plotted out with thumbtacks and highlighters, but we've found we're better at just winging it. So every intersection is a decision to mull over, fight over and get over. God forbid we begin any journey with the same opinion, but eventually one of us caves. Mom used to say agreement was pepper in milk, one of many odd phrases dementia put into her head. I especially loved her idea that curtain rods solve quarrels. After hearing that, I informed her that the right word was compromise, but then Mom spent the afternoon looking for fabric to hang on compromise.

The truth is, I should be banned from matrimony. Every time I realize I'm married, I look over my shoulder for some suit to deport me. I'm surprised my ex didn't put a provision in the divorce decree prohibiting me from repeating the act. I'm a bit much to inflict on any decent person. Nat said I'm learning, which is her way of telling me she'll forgive my failings but a wooden ruler will be kept nearby for corrections. I like to think I get more right than wrong these days. My proof is Jake's dating skills. I've at least advanced past the adolescent errors than force him to introduce a new girl to his folks every few weeks. It makes me look like a pro. Finally. But the moment I feel too good about my superior relationship skills, Nat reminds me that my DNA is to blame for Jack's constant romantic predicaments.

A new job helped my cause shortly after we entered wedded bliss, prompted by a pesky rule that stated while coworkers may date in private, they cannot make a public and legal commitment. But I didn't mind, since a decrease in anxiety allowed me to ease my way into becoming a significant other worth listing on insurance forms. Working as a consultant brings banker's hours and more money than we can spend. Though we try. For a man who feared the world would spin off its axis if I took a vacation, I've now touched more sand and sampled more hotel wine bars than my parents, the owners of a beachfront inn. Which is now ours. Believe me, we make good use of that.

For as happy as we've become, it's the fighting that solidifies our dedication. I mean, you don't argue if you don't care. Lord knows Nat can go for hours, making the most in-depth points about the simplest matters. The reasons that I should take out the trash vary from being stronger to some chore arrangement I supposedly made four years ago. When she made the leap to the activity being a stress-reliever, I stood at the front door and heaved the bag in the general vicinity of the curb. Round two began immediately, but she was right, I did feel better. Afterward, we relieved more stress in a manner far removed from garbage duty.

Her recent, and extremely thorough, points include but are not limited to: We should stop saving so much for retirement and blow a few stacks on a houseboat; I should invite my newly widowed ex to our vow renewal as a seemingly cruel token of goodwill; She should be designated Jack's emergency contact because I've permanently dislodged the cell phone from my ear. But she doesn't make a suggestion so much as issue a monarchy-approved order. Nat lines out her logic, bullet-points in her tone, and then debates the most obscure angles. Every possible one. She must believe that thoroughness ensures cooperation, which means she's never actually met me. That's her scientific mind in action, clashing with my medically inclined brain. The difference? She dissects the atom and I investigate its anatomy.

She thinks in formulas, I think in theories and we both think the other's nuts. Our love could only have been produced in a lab, which it was. And that's what it is…love. I know that now. It took a Herculean effort on Nat's part since I was convinced love was pulling-wings-off-flies torture. And that's why she usually wins the point, because saints leave Heaven armed with the weapon of patience and they never run out of ammo.

And I hear her grumble about a full trash bag so I prepare to launch yet another to the curb. And I think maybe Mom was right about the solution power of curtain rods, because I'm going to chase Nat around the house with one until that angel falls into the arms of her personal devil.