It's not easy being in love with a putz.

Take right now for instance. Josh insisted on buying a
widescreen plasma TV in time for the start of baseball
season and now he can't figure out how to hook it up to
the VCR and the DVD player at the same time. The man
could draft a bill for an assault weapons ban in under
fifteen minutes, but he can't decipher a perfectly
legible instruction manual over the course of an afternoon.

I, however, from my perch on the couch, morning paper in
hand, watching him scrabble through the tangle of wires
on the living room floor, have already figured out that
he needs to connect the red doohickey to the black
thingamajig. But has he asked for my help? No. He'll
order me around at every opportunity when we're at work
but when he actually needs the assistance...

Like I said, putz. (And isn't that a great word? I love
Yiddish, I really do.)

Finally I can't take the smothered obscenities coming
from his direction any longer. "Josh, I think the red --"

"I got it, Donna."

"But the black thing --"

"I'm telling ya, I got it." He connects the black
doohickey to the black thingamajig and triumphantly
looks up at the TV set from where he sits cross-legged
on the floor. The static-filled screen changes from
snow to blue, but still no picture. He blinks at it
for a moment, unwilling to admit defeat. "Well, that's
progress."

That does it. I put down the paper and get up from
the couch. "I'm going to take a bath," I announce.

He looks up from his electronic surgery. "Why?" I
would like to point out that he looks genuinely puzzled
by this, as if he cannot allow me to take a bath without
his understanding my reasons for doing so.

"Because, Josh, you're driving me insane and it's the
weekend and I want to relax. I'm going to go take a
bubble bath. By myself. Good luck with...whatever it
is you're doing down there."

"Whatever," he mumbles, and turns his attention back
to the mess of cables in his lap. "Now where did this
one come from? I didn't even see this one before..."

I close the bathroom door behind me with a sigh of relief.
Private time, I've discovered, is the secret to a successful
relationship, as I've read many times in Glamour. Or was
it Cosmo? I don't remember. One of those magazines they
keep in hospital waiting rooms.

I settle into a frothing sea of bubbles and breathe in
the rose-scented bath bomb I slipped into the water,
thankful that I splurged on the good stuff. I am finally
starting to feel my muscles relax when the bathroom door
opens.

"Did you see this editorial in the Post this morning?"
Josh asks, standing in the doorway, looking down at the
paper.

"Josh!"

"It says that the president's speech the other night was
uninspiring and irresponsibly irrelevant to the concerns
of the middle class. Toby's gonna hit the roof. The
alliteration alone -- "

"Josh!"

He finally looks up from the newspaper. "What?"

So many responses, so little time. I settle for the
most obvious one for the moment. "What happened to the
television?"

He puts down the toilet lid and sits, still scanning the
Post's editorial page. "Uh, I got bored so I decided to
read the paper instead."

"You mean you finally realized you don't know what the
hell you're doing and you're going to make me look at it
later so I can figure it out for you."

He has the decency to look a bit pained. "Maybe."

I sink down further into the hot water and breathe in
deeply the scent of hot rose-infused water. "Josh, what
did I tell you about private time?"

"I don't remember," he says, turning the newspaper page.
"Cosmo told you it's good or something."

I knew it was Cosmo. "That's right, Josh. And why do
you think that question is particularly relevant right now?"

He looks up, looks at me, looks at my bare shoulders
sticking up out of the bubbles. I think the gears are
actually starting to turn. "Uhhh...you're trying to have
some of this private time of which you speak and your
annoying boyfriend won't leave you alone?"

I roll my eyes. "I told you to never use that word, Joshua."

"Boyfriend?" He grins. "I kind of like it. Not around
people who would mock me relentlessly were they to hear the
word leave my lips, I'm not suicidal, but behind closed doors..."

"It makes you sound like a frat boy and I'm your cheerleader
of the week."

"Only if you wear the outfit for me," he says huskily, and
I'm done for. I sit up a little farther in the tub, just
enough to let the tips of my breasts peek through the suds,
and it's all the invitation he needs. He throws the paper
aside and sticks one leg in the water. He's barefoot, wearing
jeans and a sweatshirt, his eyes are devouring me and he's as
sexy as I've ever seen him as he leans in for a kiss.

Then he slips on the porcelain and falls on top of me, sending
water and bubbles over the sides of the tub and nearly knocking
the wind out of me as his body collides with mine.

What did I tell you? Putz.

But he is my putz, after all. And, I have to admit, that
counts for everything.

And then we're laughing and he's kissing me and wet denim
against my skin sends goosebumps down my spine and he knows
just what to do with his hands and private time doesn't seem
like such a good idea after all.

And later I hook up the TV for him. The red doohickey in the
black thingamajig does just the trick.

end.