My husband glanced up from his oatmeal this morning and gave me a penetrating look. “What did you say?” he queried in a puzzled voice.
“I said,” patience filling my voice with self-righteous indignation, “I need you to configure the internet for my new netbook.”
The merest glimmer of a smirk began to decorate the corners of his lips.
“Configure the internet?” he said, with the dead-pan delivery of a seasoned comic.
“Yes, I’ve got to get this thing up and running. I’ve got two articles to write, a website to update, and I can’t seem to make it find the internet.”
“Perhaps it’s lost.”
The man was in great danger of finding a cyanide surprise in his spaghetti that evening. I could feel my blood pressure starting to nudge the mercury. “Look. You do this kind of thing for a living. I know you know what I am talking about.”
“You’re right,” he said, staring at me coolly, “I do know what you’re talking about – I just can’t believe that you don’t.”
“Darling,” said I, voice dripping with homicidal fury. “You may know everything there is to know about motherboards, power supplies and Best Buy opening hours, but you have absolutely no idea of the needs of the average computer user. I don’t care if I’m calling “software”, “hardware”; I couldn’t care less if I’ve enabled pop-ups or pull-ups; I don’t want to know ‑ I just want it to work. Now, if you would be so very kind, could you please configure the internet before I flip out and find a pair of sharp scissors?
His smile could no longer be suppressed, and I was forced to leave the room for the comfort of my personal Matrix – the garden.
Out in the relative safety of my kingdom, I could breathe normally again, all seemed right with the world, and my virtual problems started to fade. And then I was strangely reminded of a day, not that long ago, when the balance of power had been reversed.
If memory serves, I think I was tarting up a common euonymus with a pair of shears while my husband sat on the porch thoughtfully considering the pastoral scene in front of him.
“I want an orange tree.” He said suddenly – in his best “make-it-so” voice. “In fact,” he said, considering further, “I want a whole grove of orange trees.”
“That’s nice sweetheart.” I continued in my pruning adventure. A minute went by.
“Did you hear me?” he said, a little louder. “I want an orange tree…and an avocado.”
Whether you want an orange tree, an avocado, or a tropical banana is neither here nor there my darling,” said I, the ball firmly in my court. “They simply will not grow here.”
“Well, what do you need to do?” he said, “Cover them in plastic or something? Can’t you do that?”
“What I need to do,” my lips starting to form the smirk which was to haunt me later, “is to build a twenty foot orangery on the back of the house and have well-paid undergardeners move two hundred pound half barrels of citrus delight back and forth from its sheltered bower every spring and fall.”
He looked at me, his eyes cold.
“I don’t think you understand,” he said. “I don’t want to know how you do it, I just want an orange tree – I love the smell of the blossoms. Don’t you remember the groves in Southern California?”
Remember? I’m currently in a twelve step Mid-Atlantic Gardeners Anonymous program in order to forget. I looked at him with patient indulgence and spoke the following words:
“Not going to happen.”
He stomped off, no doubt to some laptop or other that needed its internet configured.
So, as I stooped to pick a weed today from the hundreds that, like a computer virus, infect my pathways, I had a supreme moment of clarity. We are both semi-experts in our chosen fields; fields that we enjoy to such an extent that we cannot conceive of others not enjoying and understanding them in the way we do. I can’t plant orange trees for my husband, but perhaps a Philadelphus in full flower will satiate his longing. And whether he “configures the internet” or merely “establishes a network connection” – I won’t care as long as I turn on my computer and iGoogle greets my technophobic eyes.
I came inside, grabbed the netbook with which my husband had just finished fiddling, and began typing – fresh with new insight and ground breaking philosophies to share with the world.
“I found the internet for you.” He chirped, breaking my concentration. “Just don’t break it – a lot of people are using it at the moment.”
“And I’m writing an article about you,” I said sweetly, “so you would be well advised to keep your sarcastic comments to a minimum.”
Aren’t you doing that on the netbook?” he replied. “You’ll need to email that to your editor when you’re finished, so perhaps you should keep your comments to a minimum if you ever want to see it in print.”
Touché my darling. Touché.
