Not even in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine I'd someday marry the most conscientious, responsible and organized man in the world, but I did. The strange thing is that I didn't realize it until after we were married.

         True, the night Tom proposed, he asked me how many vacuum cleaners I had. He then pointed out that we should marry before winter, because icy, snowy weather could interfere with our seeing each other as frequently. And not more than twenty minutes after he had popped the question, he suggested we marry close to the end of the coming August, because of our respective employment constraints on vacation time. He even made all the arrangements and reservations for our honeymoon during that first week we were engaged. But somehow,  in my blissful fog,  I didn't even see the conscientious, responsible, organized aspects; all I saw was love.

        Then we got married.

        Starry-eyed newlywed that I was, I believed that a husband and wife should get up together in the morning and have breakfast together.  It would be a special time when we'd talk and enjoy each other's company before going off to work. The only catch was that Tom got up at five in the morning. That was non-negotiable, he told me. He had to get up that early to complete his morning routine before driving ten miles to Hockessin, where  he'd catch the bus he took to his job in Wilmington. No, he couldn't just rush through some aspects of the routine so we could catch a little more sleep. Five it was, and five it would remain.

        Tom organized my commute too, as well as organizing our weekday morning routine. I was scheduled to shower first in the full bathroom, while he would shave in the powder room, so that he wouldn't have to deal with a fogging mirror. Then he'd shower while I dressed. I'd dry my hair and put on make-up while he walked the dog, and we'd both arrive in the kitchen at the same time for breakfast together.

        I knew I could do it easily. In graduate school, when I'd been studying for my comprehensive exams, I'd set the alarm for five on weekdays so that I could get in some studying time before going to work, and it had been an easy adjustment. Rearranging my schedule would be a piece of cake!

        Or, it would have been, if not for the differences in our sleeping habits. My ideal sleeping time was eight hours. I was willing to shave off a half hour in the spirit of compromise. So if we went to bed by nine-thirty at night, it would all work out perfectly. If I strained, we could even stay up until ten sometimes.  However, my wonderful new husband, an up-at-five every morning kind of person, also wanted to stay up until – when? Whenever he'd finished everything he felt like doing after he got home from work, that's when. And after he had taken the dog for her last walk of the evening too. This meant he wouldn't start brushing his teeth until approximately ten past eleven.  Mr. Organized could get by on the overnight equivalent of a cat nap! Unfortunately for me, I also believed that a husband and wife should always turn in at the same time. You'd think a newlywed wouldn't need to spend the first year of her marriage begging her husband to come to bed! I lived for the weekends when I could try to catch up on my rapidly growing sleep deficit.

        But even on weekends, there were limits to how long we could sleep.

        There was the matter of that dog, you see. Before we married, I had Meaghan Rose, a cat, and my cat never cared how long I slept. But Tom had Cleo, a beagle, and dogs need to be walked in the morning. So we'd sleep until eight-thirty, nine when we were really pushing it, but then Cleo's needs trumped sleep. At least we could roll out of bed, throw on clothing, and shower later in the day, after we had a big breakfast.

        Tom was accustomed to having pancakes, French toast or waffles, but not eggs, along with some type of breakfast meat, both mornings of the weekend, and I was his willing accomplice. In that first year, we worked well together in the kitchen. After our marriage, I had moved into Tom's townhouse, and I meekly followed his lead in what felt to me like his kitchen. 

        Well, I generally followed his lead, except during that first argument. Maybe we could have avoided it if we had talked about our burger preferences in advance, but in my blissful newlywed state, it didn't occur to me that we didn't see everything the same way. Tom was making his special hamburgers for us that night. He seasoned the meat with garlic and pepper and put them in the electric frying pan, set at 350 degrees, for five minutes on each side. The problem was that when he declared them finished, mine was still showing, not just pink, which would have been bad enough, but distinct red on the sides; it clearly needed more cooking. The first time I pointed that out, he was polite about it, but not happy. He gave it another minute, at the end of which, the burger was still close to raw.

        After my burger spent a few more rounds in the pan, my exasperated husband asked me, "How long do you cook hamburgers on each side?"

        "I never time them," I said. "I just cook them until they're done!"

        "How do you know when they're done if you don't time them?" he demanded.

        "I look at them!" He rolled his eyes. I would have let him get away with that, and perhaps we would have finally settled down to eat those burgers, but I happened to notice that the sides of his burger were even redder than mine had been. "Your burger isn't cooked either," I added.

        That's when he exploded.

        We had a thorough argument. Loud things were said, using such words as rare, uncooked, well-done and burnt. I cried. Unrepentant, Tom defended his burgers against my accusations.  I finally threatened, "All right, I'll never say anything again!"

        I relented, though, and have been talking most of the time since then.

        We moved into a new home the next summer, just short of our first anniversary. I was eight months pregnant by then and had stopped work just before the move to get everything ready for our baby. The kitchen in this new home, and in every house we've lived in since, is my territory. Tom is welcome there, but he has to be careful not to disturb what is, after all, mine. I've resisted many of his attempts to fit my kitchen into his organizational schemes.

        One of the lessons he had to learn was not to mess with my stuff. When the kids were little, Tom would come home after his long, hard day at work and talk with me in the kitchen, where, after my long, hard day, I was finishing up on dinner preparations. I'll readily admit that he was probably surveying a grand mess, which could have included play-dough, finger paints, cheerios, pine cones, socks, the occasional odd bit of hardware, and who-knows-what-else, in addition to the ingredients of our dinner. As we talked, he'd pick up one of the unexpected items, wave it in the air, and ask, "Do we need this?"

        "It's mine," I'd tell him. "Don’t try to throw out something of mine just because you had a bad day! Go throw away something of your own!"

        He's never understood my need to keep virtually everything I've ever touched or, even more important, that either of our children has ever touched. So, despite the fact that both kids are off at college, and our nest is more or less empty, except for us, one dog and two cats, that grand mess theme is still a primary factor in our lives. I admit it: I'm not the organized one. Sometimes, as I'm sorting through the clutter, I wish I were a little more like him. But then amid the debris, I come across a Lego block, a rock collection in an old egg carton, a souvenir postcard, a theater program or a photo, and I'm reminded that I actually cherish all this junk! Frankly, I'm unlikely to change.

        Poor husband!

        But I do allow him to impose a little bit of order and organization in my kitchen.

        Most nights, while I'm still dawdling over my dinner, Tom has already finished his and is pulling out containers to put away the leftovers. He takes my plate from me the moment I've finished my last forkful, and has it in the dishwasher in a jiffy. He is frequently halfway through the dishes before I've poured my after-dinner cup of decaffeinated coffee. Except for that lingering feeling of guilt that I should get moving faster, it's absolutely wonderful!

        The sleep issue, too, has been more or less settled, not necessarily to the satisfaction of either of us.

        Tom still gets up at five, but, I, far past my newlywed days, generally sleep at least an hour later, and more when my schedule permits. Weekday breakfasts together have fallen by the wayside, since we both agree that  more sleep does wonders for my mood. On weekday mornings, before he leaves for work, Tom often wakes me with stories of his morning walk with our dog. I point out that not everyone has to start off the morning by hearing about dog poop before even getting out of bed. On weekends, after he's walked the dog, we still have big breakfasts, now prepared gluten-free since Tom's diagnosis with celiac disease.

        This past Saturday morning, as is often the case, Tom woke me. "Are you awake?" he asked.

        "I just woke up this very moment," I said.

        "Do you want to get up and take a shower while I shave, or do you want to sleep a little more?" He was standing beside the bed, looking hopeful.

        We both knew that I want to sleep more; the real question was whether I'd give in to that desire or whether I'd get up and get on with the day: shower, dress, unload the dishwasher, angle for space in our large kitchen as we make breakfast. (Why is it that he always needs to be in the same space I'm using no matter where I move?) "I don't know," I said.

        Tom crawled back under the covers to keep warm, because heaven knows it could take me ten minutes or more to decide to get up. "How did you sleep?" he asked.

        "Fine," I said, really thinking not long enough! "How about you?"

        "I had some trouble falling asleep last night," he said. "And I had a bad dream this morning."

        That was unusual, and suddenly I was all concern. "What was your bad dream about?"

        "I dreamed I was in the kitchen," he said. "I think it was our kitchen, because it had a double sink."

        A double sink?  Anyone's kitchen could have a double sink! I thought. How different the details we focus on! If I would recognize our kitchen in a dream, it would be because of the beautiful view of the woods through the window over the sink, the colors of the lamp hanging over the kitchen table, or the junk all over the counters; not because of the sink! I said nothing, merely nodded.

    "You had made a mushroom sauce with large mushrooms," he said. "It was in the pot we usually use for cooking spaghetti."

    Large mushrooms? I usually use small mushrooms for  a mushroom sauce. Was it the mushroom sauce with sherry, lemon juice, capers and marjoram? Or some other sauce? Why use that pot? And how could my mushroom sauce be a feature of a bad dream? But again, I said nothing and nodded.

    "It was by the sink, and I was getting out a left-over container to put it away."

    "This was a bad dream?" I asked. It was sounding more like real life to me.

    "Yes, I already told you it was a bad dream. Suddenly an old woman with a walker came in.  She went right over to the sink, and, before I could stop her, she poured water into the pot on top of your mushroom sauce! Then she walked away without saying a word. I said to her, 'I wish you hadn't done that.'"

    I couldn't decide if the dream seemed more like Monty Python or one of the musical numbers in 'The Producers' involving a dance routine of elderly ladies with walkers. "Yes?" I prompted.

    "Then I asked you if the sauce could be salvaged."

    "What did I say?" I asked.

    "I don't remember you saying anything. You just looked horrified," he said. "Then I woke up."

    That was his idea of a bad dream?

    Contemplating the image of a mysterious old woman invading our kitchen and interfering with Tom packing up leftovers, I laughed for most of the next ten minutes. After that, it was pretty much impossible to get back to sleep, so, whether or not he realizes it, my husband has finally found an effective way to wake me up. Just get me laughing, and I'm ready to go. I was in such a good mood that I didn't even quibble as I usually do about his getting in my way in the kitchen while we made breakfast.

    Well, mostly I didn't.

    In fact, that dream so struck me that I've decided I'm going to start putting away the left-overs myself, because, no matter how conscientious, responsible and organized he is, no man should be haunted by bad dreams of old women with walkers pouring water over the wife's mushroom sauce before he can put it safely away!

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Biographical Note: Kate Lydon is a storyteller, writer and editor who at times hires out as an adjunct professor. She grew up along the rocky coast of Massachusetts, but has lived most of her life amid the trees of Pennsylvania.   Daughter of a man who made the best donuts in the world and a woman who acted out Macbeth and read poetry for her children, Kate is the oldest of five, and thus is prone to giving advice. However, her husband, two children, two cats and one dog, independent souls all, pay scant attention, and so she writes.

Kate’s satirical murder mystery, Off Center, is now available through Amazon’s Kindle Store.She is currently working on another novel, as well as a book of stories about visiting her grandparents Papa and Eva, whose shared hobby was arguing. Several Papa and Eva stories have been published here: "Visiting Papa and Eva", "Melon, Coffee and Coke" , "Riding in the Car" , and "Lessons in Psychology." See also Kate's stories "You Don't Mean It, Dear!" , "Pipe Dreams,"  "Wisdom Teeth" and "Season of the Damn Men."