Mr. Philately and I went out last night, just the two of us. We started at Home Depot, where we did not buy a snow shovel, and proceeded to the grocery store, where we bought milk the first time we went there. What a date! Just call us hopeless romantics.

We went into Home Depot for painting supplies because Mr. Philately is helping lead the stage crew for the middle school musical. We went into the grocery for milk and for soda pop for a potluck today. (I suspect we were assigned soda because Mr. Philately was assigned to bring soda. He actually makes a mean fruit salad but I doubt the women organizing the potluck even thought of asking.)

Of the two adventures, the grocery store was more fun. Just as I sometimes crave chocolate, Mr. Philately craves pumpkin pie. He prefers homemade but he knows he did not marry me for my cooking so he�s willing to settle for store-bought. Of late, he�s had trouble finding pumpkin pie but now that Thanksgiving is approaching, he is ever hopeful.

We walked into the store after the bakery section closed but a miracle occurred. There, in the display case, was a pumpkin pie, calling Mr. Philately�s name. It called so loudly that even I heard it and I was lost in thought. Mr. Philately had one problem. No one was behind the counter any more but Mr. Philately is Iowa stubborn. A small matter of no one to help will not deter him. A lack of help throughout the store will not deter him. No, the vegetarian who would never even think of using his tracking skills in the woods will use them to track down someone to get him a pumpkin pie. When he finds his quarry, it�s big game. He found a manager.

The pie, however, remained out of reach. The manager was more than willing to sell Mr. Philately the pie. Unfortunately, the manager�s job is to manage. It�s not his job to know where the pie containers are. He opened drawers, he closed drawers, and he looked under counters but he could not find a container. Mr. Philately stared longingly at the pie. The pie stared back. Mr. Philately stared again�and then he got creative.

He marched over to the deli counter where he could see a lot of containers. No, the pie would not fit in a small salad container. No, the pie would not fit in a large salad container. No, the pie would not fit in a square container. And then it occurred to him. He saw a quiche container and what, after all, is quiche but a poor cousin of pumpkin pie. Because he could not go behind the counter, he had to explain his idea to the manager. The manager was happy to use the container but he could not see where Mr. Philately was pointing. The supermarket version of the old game of hot and cold ensued. Mr. Philately had his pie.

He picked up the milk and we headed for the middle of the store. What is a pumpkin pie without Cool Whip? He could taste that pie and his dream definitely included Cool Whip. I stayed and leafed through a magazine at checkout as he ran off to get the Cool Whip. �He seems quite determined to get something,� said the cashier. I smiled.

He returned with the Cool Whip and we went through checkout. The store was quiet and, at the last moment, he stopped himself from accidentally handing over a new Vermont quarter. (He also likes to collect coins but concentrates more on stamps because philately is generally a cheaper hobby.) The cashier noticed his interest and remarked on it. She said that she used to collect quarters. He told her that the real trick was to make sure he had a special state quarter from each mint. She didn�t roll her eyes. She didn�t even pretend to be interested. She really was interested. More important, she exchanged a dollar for three Vermont quarters and just any old quarter.

Pumpkin pie and a soulmate. I was in danger of losing my man to dreams. I could have tried to compete. I could have shown a lot of interest in his quarters but I knew he wouldn�t believe me. I did the only thing I could. I hustled him out of there.

We drove a few blocks toward home and then he remembered. He�d forgotten the soda. We turned around and went back. I had had enough adventure for one night. I told him I�d wait in the car. �Okay,� he said. �But I�m going to tell the cashier it was your fault that I forgot.� I told him she wouldn�t believe him but he thought she would. She, unlike his wife, understood him.

When he returned to the car, he was laughing. �I told her it was your fault,� he said. �But she didn�t believe me. She said, �Yeah, ri-i-i-ight.�� So much for his perfect woman, I thought. �Yeah,� he continued, shaking his head. �All you women stick together.�

�Yup,� I told him. �United we stand.�

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