No matter where we're going, no matter what we're going to do, it's like clockwork--she's going to be 15 minutes late. I suppose there's something to be said for her consistency. She's so consistent, in fact, that I could almost set my watch by her tardiness.

I think it's one of those woman things.

Me? I hate to be late. I'd much rather get to a movie 10 or 15 minutes early and use the extra time for popcorn, Junior Mints and previews than to be racing in 10 or 15 minutes late, stumbling over angry feet in the darkness trying desperately to find a couple of seats together.

But my wife? She has no conception of what it means to be punctual.

You know, I hear about this guy stuff all the time--we're all babies when we get sick, we're all slobs around the house, we're all insensitive, selfish, boorish ... well, you guys have all heard it before.

But how about women? They have their faults, too. Like this one in particular ... they're always, always late!

Take the other night for example. We were just planning to catch a movie, but it was typical of any excursion we may plan:

"Are you ready?" I asked hopefully, taking a peek at my watch. "We have to leave in 15 minutes."

"Just about," she chirped back in that sing-songy way that almost makes be believe every time that she truly is just about ready.

So I turned off the TV, locked up the downstairs doors and windows, and flipped on the porch light in preparation for an on-time departure. Then five minutes passed, and there was no sign of her.

"Hey, we've got to leave in a few minutes," I said, with just the slightest, ever so slight, hardly noticeable bit of impatience in my voice.

"I'll be right down!" she sang out, a little less melodically this time.

But more time passes, and with it my patience. "Hey," I bellowed, "we've got to go! Are you ever going to be ready?"

Well, that one usually strikes a nerve.

"I'm going as fast as I can!" she snapped back. "Why don't you just go start the car and I'll be right out."

So what do I do? Like an idiot, I go start the car. And I sat there burning gas while doing a slow burn myself as I watched the minutes click away on the digital clock in the dash. When it hit the precise minute of our planned time of departure--a time that we had agreed upon earlier in the day, a time we both felt comfortable that we could meet, a time that would get us to our destination in time for the start of the event we planned to attend--I did what any mature, patient, responsible man would do ...

Hooonnnkkk, honk, honk, hooonnnkkk!

The engine rumbled its displeasure as I sat idling by, and I waited five more minutes before I shut it down and went back in the house.

"We're now five minutes late," I shouted. "Should I call the theater and see if they can just wait 'til we get there to start the movie?" (When I'm a wise guy, she doesn't even bother to respond.)

With that, I plopped myself down on the couch and flipped on ESPN.

Five minutes later (that's now 10 minutes late for those keeping score), she comes storming downstairs.

"What are you doing in here watching TV?" she screeches. "We've got to go ... we're late ... I thought you were going to start the car!"

Good grief. Do I believe what I'm hearing? But being the obedient, dutiful husband that I am (and just happy that she's finally made an appearance downstairs), I didn't say a word. I just punched the remote and headed out to fire up the car.

She finally appeared, and she climbed into the car exactly 15 minutes late.

I know what you're thinking. Why don't I just tell her that we have to leave 15 minutes earlier than we really do and she'll be right on time? Wouldn't work ... somehow she'd know ... she'd still be 15 minutes late. I can't tell you why; I can't tell you how she does it.

I guess it's one of those woman things.

Want to talk? Give me a call at 408.354.3110, or write to dsparrer@svcn.com.