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Her husband can't keep his eyes off the Palm Pilot

Tuesday, March 11, 2003

By Heidi McDonald

We have a new electronic gadget at our house. It is compact and portable, it is state of the art, and it is evil. The introduction of a Palm Pilot into our lives has caused as much chaos as the beagle puppy did last spring. And while the beagle is still obnoxious, at least he's pathetically cute and gives kisses.

	Daniel Marsula, Post-Gazette

"Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus" was correct on at least one point: A man instinctively retreats into the cave. This is especially true if his cave contains a computer with online role-playing games and baseball prediction software. After dinner, my husband usually disappears to the third floor, and I don't see him again until 2 a.m. Sometimes I worry about what he might be doing up there.

The Palm Pilot has given me some insight into that area, because now he doesn't even have to go to the third floor. He can bring it with him everywhere.

My quality time with my husband consists of our drives to and from work. Now, instead of the typical witty banter, I hear beeping. I ask if he's listening, and he grunts, his head bowed over the Palm Pilot. Apparently, one of his co-workers has thoughtfully taught him to download games.

Inflicting revenge for the times I've had to put on eyeliner while he's driving, I decide to play a game of my own, called "Hit the Pothole." Not only have I discovered that I'm pretty good at it, but it throws enough of a wrench into his Minesweeper game that he decides to put the Palm Pilot away and talk to me.

I have asked my husband to explain why the Palm Pilot is so fascinating, but I still can't relate.

Addresses? I have a Day Timer, which is portable and needs no batteries. Games and e-mail? That's why we have a computer. Turning your handwriting into text? Microsoft Word can do it, and you don't even have to learn some new, mutated form of cursive. Keep in mind, this is the same man whose handwriting is already so atrocious that after he filled out Fletcher's dog license application, Allegheny County sent a dog license for Fletzmer.

When we pick up the kids, I ask how their day was. The 7-year-old girl answers, "It went great. Do you have any new games on the Palm Pilot?"

She can never directly ask to see it, because we'd be expecting that. Instead, she spends all evening asking inane questions, hoping her father will let her borrow it. "What size batteries does it take?" "What color is the pencil?" "Does the pencil have a pink eraser like mine?" My husband, who serially obsesses about the Palm Pilot's whereabouts, won't let go of it long enough to show her.

At dinnertime, the Palm Pilot is beside his plate as he eats. Our daughter is staring at it because she wants to play with it. My husband is staring at it because he wants to play with it. Fletzmer, whose head periodically appears over the edge of the table, wants to eat it, or at least bury it in my couch with the toilet brush, some dirty socks and a couple of stolen beanie babies.

Our 5-year-old son, oblivious to these dynamics, stays an invasion of invisible aliens on his plate with a mashed potato wall and a few carrot-like weapons. I am livid because another chance for quality family time is thwarted by the omnipresence of the Palm Pilot. I can take no more. Breaking my silence, I announce, "I have a new rule. No Palm Pilot at the dinner table." Two people at the table (the ones not vaporizing extraterrestrials with their food) are dejected.

"Why, Mommy?" the girl asks.

"Because," I answer sweetly, "Mommy has decided she hates the Palm Pilot."

My husband returns from the third floor late at night when I'm already asleep. We settle into bed together. And then I hear it ... the beeping. I look over, and he is under the covers, his face glowing blue from the LED screen's reflection. "What?" he asks. "I accidentally downloaded 900 e-mails into this thing, and they have to all be deleted individually!"

I take my pillow and go sleep on the couch, pulling the toilet brush out from under my bum. I have wonderful fantasies about smashing the Palm Pilot, or hurling it out the car window, and these lull me to sleep.

In the morning, my remorseful husband covers my face with kisses. "It'll pass in a couple of weeks," he promises. "It's just the whole 'new toy' thing."

I hope he's right, but to hedge my bets, I'm going to be underhanded. I'm shopping at Victoria's Secret, hiding his new toy and offering to be his new Palm Pilot. If that fails, you can follow the rest of our story on Court TV.

Heidi McDonald lives in Edgewood. She can be reached at whistlingthis@yahoo.com.