Shopping is sort of a stereotypical thing that high school girls like to do. I guess once again I am the weirdo, because I hate shopping. Yes, I do enjoy the things I get out of shopping, but the actual shopping part is not any fun.

It just seems like everything is such a hassle. First, you have to pick out the stuff you like the most among so many choices. Then you have to rummage through everything to find your size, which most of the time isn't there. It just so happens that a size smaller and a size larger would be there, but none in your size. After this, you have to try the clothes on...which in itself is a task. You have to stand around and wait for your turn, then you try all the clothes you picked out on, have to show them to your friend, and then you decide you don't even want half of the stuff you picked out and went to the trouble of finding your size.

Next is the line to check out. It's always way longer when you actually step into it than it was before when you were just shopping. Then the cashiers start to ask you a million and one questions about how if you do this this and this then you can save 2% on all your purchases of the day. If you decline then they ask, "Are you sure?" Yes, I am sure... now check me out and give me my clothes. Like you didn't think hard enough about the chance to save a whole dollar if you inconvenience yourself so much.

Point is, shopping is no fun in my book, even if I am supposed to like it.

My wife must have been a hound dog in a previous life, because she can smell and hear better than any human I've ever encountered. So naturally I like to annoy her over things that don't bother me, being of average human ability in both senses. It's fun to a point, but after eighteen years of marriage, I can easily identify the signs when enough has become enough.

My soap, for example, bothers her. I used the same brand of soap for years, but she couldn't stand to be in the same shower with it. Finally, we compromised. I start using soap she deemed inoffensive enough to her sensitive sniffer.

But every now and then, I'll run out of the new brand and dip into the surplus of leftover soap from those halcyon days when I actually got to clean myself with a product of my own choosing. The reaction is consistent and unvarying. "You're going to have to get rid of that soap or start taking your shower in another bathroom." It's not the sort of statement that leaves much room for interpretation. "The soap goes, or both of you go." Simple, really.

While others attempt to infuse their environments with sweet smells, or spicy fragrances, or aromatic flowers, our only goal is smell neutrality. Nothingness.

My office chair is another source of frustration for her. The chair squeaks, a fact that I would never notice if not for her incessantly pointing it out to me.

"Why don't you squirt that chair with some WD-40?," she'll say, and I'll mumble something about not having time, and I'll sit still for a while, and eventually she'll forget about it.

But I'm a fidgeter, and sooner or later I'm going to lean back or shove forward or spin for several revolutions just for fun. And the squeaking begins anew, from both sources.

Sometimes, I'll lean backward very slooowwwwlllly, the better to extend the squeakiness.

We've also had squeaking problems with our bedroom door at home, and the front door to our office. The bedroom door was a real problem, because in addition to making an annoying sound when she was awake, it also disturbed her morning slumber.

Many was the morning when I tried various methods of opening that door so it made as little noise as possible. I'd try opening it very slowly, for a softer but more extended squeak. Other times I'd jerk it open quickly, so the squeak could have seemed like a sound that occurred in a millisecond of a dream she might be having.

I tried spraying the hinges with lubricant, and greasing the pins by hand, and only solved the problem after learning of the wonders of beeswax. Another crisis averted, and another night I got to sleep in our marital bed.

A few months ago, we had some interior renovations done at the office, and the workmen were opening and closing the front door quite often. Squeak-squeak-slam... squeak-squeak-slam... squeak-squeak-slam...

Finally, Sybil jumped out of her chair, marched to the back of the office and rustled up a can of WD-40 and went to town on those hinges. Lubricate and open. Lubricate and open. Lubricate and open. Until finally, the squeak was gone.

But that brought on another problem. See, we both work with our backs to the door, and it turns out we relied on that squeak to let us know someone had come in. Instead of a door bell, we had a door squeaker. Heck, it had even gotten to the point that, when one of the ėregulars' came in, I could tell who it was, without looking, just by the sound of the squeak and the volume of the slam. Now, I sometimes can't even tell when a customer has entered the office.

It must be a burden, to live with an amplifier in your head and an annoying husband by your side. I won't even get into the snoring arguments.