My husband Mark and I have a weekend hideaway, a respite from the pace of New York City life. Our country haven is smaller than most; it was once optimistically measured at 400 square feet. In fact, it’s so petite that the very act of staying there more than a day without a single quarrel is persuasive proof of a sound relationship.
On a recent weekend there we were happily hiding out, luxuriating in nature, listening to the birds, and breathing in the fragrant non-New York City air. Suddenly, we were assaulted by a distinctly unpacific sound. No, not sundry talking heads screaming about Iraq. It was even worse than that. … (False Alarm is continued here.)