When I first started dating my husband, he was living in San Jose, CA where I was commuting on business. It just sort of naturally evolved that I stayed with him.

Like all girls in a new relationship, I immediately started imagining my Happily Ever After, (HEA). So there I was, filled to the brim with Snow White-like fantasies of sweeping out his little bachelors cottage and baking pies for him while he's busy slogging away at work.

I'm sure the reader can guess what was found in his refrigerator when I opened it. Turns out my husband was famous in pizza joints from Santa Clara to Palo Alto. He merely had to walk through the door, and the pizzeria instantly started preparing his standard order. His refrigerator contained an archeological artifact of one of these such expeditions. Amazingly, he was still eating it.

Back to my HEA. Step one in my pie-baking fantasy would be to go get pie supplies. I returned "home" with a pot roast, vegetables, bread, butter, drinks and a carrot cake mix. After washing my roast and vegetables, I started opening drawers and cabinets looking for a knife and a cutting board.

Nothing. Not a thing. No mixing bowls, no baking pans, no measuring cups... No cutting board and no knives. The music from The Shining played in my head as I opened cupboard after cupboard only to find them bare. (You know the tune - where she finds all the writing he's done is a single repeating sentence...)

Wait a second. Snow White doesn't sweep out Old Mother Hubbard's cottage. This was all screwed up.

Cue him arriving home from work. After another trip to the store, this time with him in tow, I was finally ready to begin my pie-baking-fest. It's hardly worth mentioning that I needed to use my lighter to melt the plastic bolt that secured the knife in its packaging as he had no scissors. I should have anticipated that.

At around 10:PM I was finally ready to admit defeat. The roast was inedible. The New Car Interior smell of his oven had thoroughly permeated the meat, as well as his apartment. (Even though he had been living there for three years.) With assistance from an unpleasant combination of Polynesian seasonings, I created a taste sensation that was carbon gamey as well as metallic. Mmm mmm. Truly, I am impressive.

On our way out to dinner that night, I pulled him to me as we passed the kitchen. I made him stop and admire his now full cabinets and fridge. "At least it looks like someone lives here now," I commented.

"Yeah," he replied without missing a beat. "You do."

With a final squeeze of my shoulders, he led the way out the door. Joyfully, I realized that he could laugh all he wanted. It was too late in the day for the pizzeria to be open.

From: www.CastleRockTalk.com