For Better or Worsteria?

In many ways, my husband and I see and interpret the world differently. He sees and interprets from the perspective of being a male and an engineer. I see and interpret from the perspective of being a female and a liberal arts type. We get along well despite all this. Sometimes, though, the difference is so striking that I remember it for days afterward. One of those differences came up last week while Nathaniel and Emma were in Rome, and we were dating.

Usually when we drive somewhere together, we go in his truck. He's more comfortable in it than in the Honda that Emma and I share, and he generally disapproves of the stuff that Emma and I keep in our vehicle, as it resembles a mobile hair salon, sewing room, and Sweet 'n' Low supply station (surplus from when I get iced tea at the drive-through.)

Since Easter Sunday, it's also been somewhat of a flower shop because a friend of Emma's loaded the dashboard with heavily-perfumed wisteria and delicate azalea blooms that day, and we enjoyed them so much we left them there for a really, really long time.

"It made the car so feminine," Emma remembers, sighing contentedly.

Her dad still lives in mortal fear of her following through with her idea to improve the outside of the car with colorful flower stickers.

Anyway, by the time I decided it was time to be rid of the flowers, the wisteria blossoms had dried and separated from the stems. Little purply-brown petals fluttered around the interior and lurked in every crevice. This did not concern me or Emma. I just wanted the bulk of it cleaned up, which I did by sweeping out the flowers, not vacuuming.

So when my husband got in the car and studiously ignored the bobby pins, ponytail holders, Sweet 'n' Low packets, and pattern pieces, I breathed a deep sigh of relief. However, the relief did not last long because he got out the GPS, even though he knew exactly how to get where we were going. I distrust the GPS and get annoyed with it telling me what to do. He likes the GPS and turns it on just to see the road he is traveling on the screen--affirmation is a good thing, I guess.

He didn't have the GPS turned on more than a few minutes before it signaled that the battery was going dead. He promptly plugged it into the charger that is located in the console. This worried me, because Nathaniel has been warning me that we were going to ruin the battery because Emma and I constantly forget to unplug the GPS from the charger.

My worst fear seemed to have come true. Plugging the GPS into the charger didn't help. Herb unplugged it and pushed it back in. It still refused to charge. In desperation, he unplugged it from the charger, reached down into the now-empty socket and pulled out. . .a withered purple petal.

Uh-oh.

As my brain recognized the danger of this disturbing piece of evidence, it simultaneously conjured up a happy memory of Easter and the floral-bedecked dashboard, and, overcome, I forgot the tense situation and smiled.

My husband, looking at the same endearing relic that had just gladdened my heart, apparently saw the car consumed in flames and announced in a warning voice, "This is a fire hazard!"

Try as I might, I could not see flames; I just saw flowers--blossom upon blossom, purple and pink--and remembered the joy of Easter.