"Just what in the HELL do you think you are doing?"

I was immediately snapped from my concentration. My head spun toward the source of this gawdawfull commotion. Every spouse knows this tone of voice. It's one that spells impending doom.

Knowing as I sat there with my best 'deer in the headlights' look afastend on my beloved, the panic I felt was creeping into my expression. If she saw it, I was dead meat. Law of the jungle. At this point, I knew exactly how Marlin Perkins felt when he fell into the alligator pit. This time, however, there would be no Jim coming to the rescue.

Quickly, I gathered my wits. I'm not a mere animal of the wild, I'm a logical being. As fast as my brain could process data, I tried to formulate a decision on which of my two most powerful tactics I should use. The tried and true "Confuse the Issue" ruse? Or, the always popular "Lie, Lie, Lie, Plant The Seed Of Doubt"?

Just as I had made up my mind, she launched a viscous pre-emptive strike.

"And don't try any of that confusion/looking stupid mumbo-jumbo," she spat. "And I caught you red handed so you won't be able to lie your way out of this one!"

"And take those goofy headlight glasses off," she barked. "Last week when you wore those stupid things to take out the garbage you scared old Mrs. Benson across the street so bad she almost had a trauma."

"Wow! A one-two punch!" I thought, more than a little impressed. Not only had she defused my two best defenses, but she had clouded the issue by throwing questions about my looks. This caused my ego to go off line and prepare its own defense. Just that much less brain power for me to use.

Then, as seldom happens, a stroke of brilliance hit me.

Nothing is anyone's fault now days. It's true! How many times do you see a racer on TV explain his loss with the words, "I sucked out there today, Fred. The bike was running great, it was all my fault." (Yeah RIGHT!)

"Pattern Recognition!" I stated.

"Huh?" she snappily replied.

Heh, heh. I knew I was home free!

So what heinous crime had I committed that caused this tremendous rift in marital bliss? Had I been caught smooching on the next door neighbor? Oh no, nothing that forgivable. She had caught me dead to rights rooting around in my clutch basket trying to snag that little circlip thingie from my carb needle with one of her stained glass tools.

I'm not going to try and explain how my needle clip ended up in my clutch basket. Especially seeing as the side case was on when I initially dropped the stupid clip. If you have spent any time maintaining your dirt bike, then you know how these things happen. If you don't understand, well...

"What on God's green earth does pattern recognition have to do with you screwing up MY, yes, MY tools?" she demanded. "And while we're on the subject, just try and explain why my soldering iron smells like bean oil!"

She had me there. This small skirmish would go to her, but the battle was mine. In the good old days when the garage was my domain, I used to chastise her for even thinking about THINKING about using my tools. And I had a right. Something about catching her driving a 16 penny nail through a knot in the garage wall with my torque wrench comes to mind.

"Woman!" I proclaimed, "You are never to use my tools again!"

"Fine, I'll buy my own," was her simple and surprisingly logical reply. "And you can't use them."

And she did. Ya' see OldFarts wifey-poo is into stained glass in a big way. And man, do they use a lot of spiffy looking tools. All sorts of special shaped tools to do special little things. And therein lies the heart of the problem.

"Well, now the soldering iron I can explain. I needed to solder my bike trailer lights, and the kids took off with my iron. So I used your iron, but the tip was all boogered up. Ya' know, you should take better care of your tools."

This earned me with a killer glare, but I forged on.

"So I couldn't find my solder flux. So, I figured some of that old bean oil I had would tin 'er up just fine," I smugly retorted.

"Cute, but no-go. You owe me $35 for a new soldering iron. And the KIDS didn't lose your soldering iron, you left it behind the toilet in the back bedroom......and what WERE YOU DOING BEHIND THE TOILET WITH A SOLDERING IRON?", she bellered.

"Woman," I sniffed, "if you cannot appreciate the fine art of heat treating metal, then I will not attempt to explain the utility of the quick dump/quenching abilities of a commode."

"Cut the crap," she spat back. "What's with this pattern recognition silliness?"

So I explained to her.

The human mind is extremely adept at pattern recognition. Most of the things we see aren't fully processed by the brain. It registers a pattern, then, fills in a lot of the detail. Your TV and this computer screen are good examples. They're just a bunch of colored dots spaced close together.

So, when I dropped my circlip down the oil fill hole... of course she had to snort at this... my mind simply assessed the situation and then demanded that my body go find something with the pattern that it thought was needed to root the thing out. And when the side cover came off, the brain decided it wanted another pattern. Then I told her how this kind of thing happened to me all the time.

"So ya see, hon, it's not my fault. I can't help myself", I finished.

I felt good! This one was in the bag. I could tell by the way she was thinking about this one that I was gonna get off. Then it happened. And there was nothing I could do.

"DAD!" hollers my son. "Have you seen the arm from my G.I. Joe?"

Both my wife's and my eyes settled on the little pink tube crammed behind the clutch basket. She reached down and gingerly pulled it out.

"You stole your sons G.I. Joe arm and cut off all the fingers but ONE?" she gasped.

"Well, ya' see, he really shouldn't be playing with dolls any ways, and it was the only thing that would bend around that corner, and..." I replied before looking at her and noticing THAT look. Ya' ever see them World War II documentaries where the airplane is on fire and slowly descending to its death? Well, that's how I felt.

"Well this one is gonna' cost you, buster," she menaced. "$45 for the soldering iron, a G.I. Joe, and NEW riding boots for the boy."

"OK, I guess that's fair enough" I mumbled.

"Oh no, that's not all," she eyed me steely. "The next time I even THINK you used one of my tools, I will use your dial indicator to crack walnuts, and your case splitter as a Christmas tree stand!"

"Also," she continued, "TRAVIS, AUSTIN! CALL SOME OF YOUR FRIENDS! DAD'S TAKING YOU GUYS TO CHUCKEE CHEESE TO PLAY VIDEO GAMES ALL DAY!"

"Crap," I spat out, "Ok, well I guess I deserve that."

"But lemme' explain about them glasses."

Mike Hetrick
Nampa, ID
November 1997