Joe and the Coffeemaker

Few words strike a common cord amongst married women like the words “leg lamp”. Unless you were born a week ago, you know what those words mean. They are symbolic of the power struggle between the sexes. They stand for the many small battles that couples, over time, must learn to accept, engage in, and overcome in order to cohabitate for any amount of time. It is the dance of married people—the give and take, the deciding which disagreements are battles and which are Battles. Each must compromise, dominate, and accept defeat at various times for the benefit of the marriage, and when they don’t, the marriage fails. In our house, it is usually the most mundane of things that sends us into the gladiator arena—when the lawn should be mowed and by whom, where to hang the shed key, and the overstocking of various types of mustard in the frig. I think we are normal, as we pull together in the really serious trials of life, but we can drive each other nuts with the silly petty stuff. Thank god for love or I’d kill him half of the time. The other half, he’d kill me, I’m sure of it.

Joe decided to assert himself at, of all places, the high school band fundraiser night. We don’t get out as much as we should, so this is a great evening of fun, filled with adult conversations, cocktails, music, dancing, and raffles. There are the usual silent auctions (that we can’t afford), lame door prizes, and about a hundred raffle prizes. There are raffle prizes that I think are nice—like spa packages, restaurant certificates, or baskets of gourmet foods. There are raffle prizes that Joe likes—18 holes of golf, Ipods, and a bucket of car grooming products. Then there are raffle prizes that nobody wants—the 8 foot neon palm tree, the outdated CD player, the electric coin counter, or the Bears bean bag chair. Well, I think no one wants them, anyway.

We peruse the raffles prize tables, tickets clenched tightly in my fist, deciding what cup to honor their presence in. Joe makes a suggestion and I rebuff him. “We don’t need that” is the usual admonishment. He makes more suggestions, I think I’m compromising, and we drop tickets in various buckets. I inspect the prizes carefully, making sure we don’t end up with something silly and frivolous; completely unaware of the fact that Joe is miserable.

Joe has a Type B personality. Thank God. I am a very Type A and we balance each other most of the time. He is so Type B, that I think he is almost a B minus. Joe was the youngest of five kids in his family. He is the master of fitting in, the king of mellow, and the picture of passive-aggressive. He is usually quiet, pretty easy going, and tolerant of my latest escapades. When I’m yelling and screaming, he stands there waiting until I’m finished. I take charge, he takes orders. I’m a go-getter, he’s a let’s –think-about-it-for-awhile. He has earned the name “Poor Joe” because it appears that he just follows the Lin Bandwagon, which isn’t true, but it appears that way to onlookers. Poor Joe gets his way sometimes, but quietly, he just doesn’t make a whole lot of noise about his rebellion. Tonight was no exception.

I was talking to some friends, sipping a glass of wine, when the unthinkable happened. Joe politely interrupted the conversation to say that he bought just another $5 worth of tickets. He casually added that he would just take care of them while I was visiting. I never suspected, never saw it coming. He was an adult, he could handle this. How much trouble could he get into with $5 worth of tickets?

As we sat down at the table, Joe admitted that he had put all 6 tickets into the cup for a coffeemaker. We didn’t’ need a coffeemaker and I said so. I was about to give him crap about how silly that was when I realized that his eyes were sparkling with that stick-it-to-Lin kind of look. Worse yet, the other men at the table were all smiling and secretly envying his audacity. They too, must have had their raffle tickets reined in by the little woman, and were waiting to see Joe’s demise or perhaps, a victory. One guy actually admitted that he snuck in tickets for the neon palm tree.

Finally, Joe spoke up--loudly, I might add.

“The cup only had a couple of tickets in it. I figured I had a good chance to win.” He was so damn proud of himself I couldn’t say anything more. “It’s not about a coffeemaker—it’s about winning.” He started to look like the dad in “A Christmas Story” when he got the letter saying he’s won “a major award”. The similarity was scary.

Yeah, but you’re winning a coffeemaker. I gave up. I knew that once again, Poor Joe was setting me up to be the bad guy and I looked like the fool. Let him have his coffeemaker. Or not. He didn’t win it yet. I still had a chance if they didn’t draw his ticket.

The Durabrand showed up on the table with the flourish of Vanna White. Joe won the golden chalice of raffle prizes and it wasn’t even a name brand. The box boasted of its finest features—a water level indicator and an on/off button. It didn’t even have a timer! It pretty much was the leg lamp of prizes. But that didn’t matter to Joe or his cohorts at the table. Oh, there were high fives, and hoots of glory. There were handshakes and pats on the back. There were told-you-so smirks to the wives. Yep, they showed me. It was the dumbest prize ever won and you’d think he’d just won the Super bowl.

The Durabrand went up in the attic the next day. We didn’t need the thing, and Joe quietly stowed it away for Amvets or maybe next year’s raffle. He didn’t care that it was lame; all that he cared about is that he WON. I didn’t understand it, and I still don’t. I think it is a guy thing. I’ll let him have this one. Let him have his glory, his moment in the sun. If that’s what it takes to make himself feel good, I didn’t say a word. So what if he was acting like one of the kids?

Two days later, ( and I’m not making this up) I dropped the glass pot for my Krupp’s.