Paycheck!

Sitting down in his tall wicker chair, Robert acts like you re being a playful hassle. Right on time you present his two sunny side up eggs, buttered wheat toast, and precisely medium cooked hash browns breakfast plate to him over the island's cooking burners, with the newspaper extended in your left hand.

'What you really ought to be concerned about is who is going to be the next President, so the United States doesn't go to hell in a hand basket!' he announces.

'Maybe we need a woman president in 2000,' you quip, to try and lighten up this scene.

'A WOMAN?' Robert roars. 'A woman can't be intellectual. All they do is feel. They can't run a business, let alone be President of the United States!

'Sheila. A woman isn't generally good enough, smart enough, or has the guts to run for President.'

'We get caught in the middle,' you comment. 'We've got to stay behind the back in our thinking, rarely be able to say where we're really at, because we risk losing security, and the benefits. And believe me! I don't KNOW if I as a female can earn a buck, be independent in our world today.

'It's the girl packaging thing, ' you say. 'Generally we're smaller, so men have more perceived worth.'

'What's your point, Sheila?'

'It's WORTH WARS, across the board, Robby! -- between sex gender male/female -- among races -- with youth/age -- at the office, title positions -- who has more worth, white collar/blue -- in family roles -- whoever has more money is felt to have more worth -- between nationalities, countries, governmental systems, political parties, conservative/liberal, religions, consumer products -- for one to be better, worth far more -- the other lousy -- that the other shouldn't exist -- the war between the extremes, though, when good, both have their reality, point, worth!

'So my best guess is just Knock it off, skip the Worth Wars thing.

'Because if we gals get too much on stage -- the Boy s Team doesn t like us. We don't have worth. We re seen as not feminine, or called a bytch, ' you say. (Your rule is to not use swear words, so you vamp, upgrade them.)

Now, like concluding his case in court, Robby matter of factly says, 'Since agrarian society, the MEN had the BRAINS to go out and fight the invaders, Sheila. Just watch the kids, the garden -- you re in the nest with your attention 16 hours a day all alone watching the woodchucks in the back yard out the kitchen window.'

He sees down to the spread out newspaper, front page left of his egg/toast methodical precision cutting business.

'Here's a governor who says he loves what he's doing -- but what can a United States Governor do? Give the stern Senior Achievement lecture to the kid's? -- I'm the governor. What angle on the project, (as you say), can you do? '

'Yeah. The being a school principal in Earth High idea.'

'Isn't that the goal?' says Rob. 'To love what you're doing? -- End up doing your thing in life, even if it's for five minutes now and then? Moonlighting? '

He looks at you with total fixed attention -- 'Sheila. Mrs. Robert J. England -- Do you have a problem, or prob, as you speak, just feeling pleasure? Why don't you love what you're doing? I do much of the time,' he argues.

'I'm just trying to talk, with you now, Robby. Like we use to in college, when we weren't afraid to give each other our ideas.

'I feel better, simpler and clearer if I just express, ADMIT truth to myself, where I am --

'even in brief, to the point, expressively spoken statement in my head, what I want to say, the inner conversation --

'or when alone, say in the car -- Mom called it -- thinking out loud to yourself. And she had a psychology B.A. You know, say out loud, I admit -- I want -- whatever. I think--I better -- I feel -- to be clear about the issue, get organized, directed.

' ADMIT IT THERAPY. At least stopping for a moment and telling myself the truth for me now. I guess it's my form of prayer,' you explain. 'I find it can be hard to deliberately admit where I'm at, think what I want to think, look at what I want to look at, and feel what I want to feel. Do something physically I want to do that would make me feel good in a good way, not necessarily always for a reason. You know, ask, What is the truth?'

'So this isn't about us, Robby! It's like a neurochemical need I've been having for the longest time -- for financial insecurity -- and it's simply too hard to talk the way you boys have it wired as I can see by your ANGER, me bringing up this own money working girl joy thought.

'I m sorry!' you tell. 'I can't keep the wild thought of working on my own in my head. I have to share it with you. Call it my 40's identity crisis. Or age project Return To 17. Whether it's female or not -- it's from my inside physical system, and my intuition is getting me to see if we're on the same page, in agreement. However, such a dialogue is really risky if we can't be open minded, cool about it. Have you ever used the word cool in court, Robby?'

'Yes. Attorneys say cool breeze quite a lot during deposition.'

Speeding on, not wanting to be bored out of his skull for a second with this discussion, Robert concludes, 'Well, you might as well forget it Sheila. You could never make it on your own.'

'OH I WOULDN'T BE TOO SURE ABOUT THAT BUSTER!'

Now into the argument, fast, hyperspacing thought, in a snap decision, from a sudden physical impulsive move, Robert drops his paper as he stands, jumps his chair back, laughs, declares -- 'I'LL BET YOU A MILLION DOLLARS YOU CAN'T MAKE IT OWN YOUR OWN!'

You're blown away he's so cold. 'PUT THAT IN WRITING AND YOU JUST WON A BIG FAT DIVORCE!'

Incensed you didn't back down, thinking you're kidding, and trying to get you back under his control again -- owning your mental and physical airspace -- Robby quickly clicks open his briefcase on the counter, pulls out a legal pad, his black Cross pen, and almost shouts as he reads out writing:

'I, MR. ROBERT J. ENGLAND, BET YOU, SHEILA ENGLAND, A MILLION DOLLARS YOU CAN'T MAKE IT ON YOUR OWN. YOU'LL REALIZE THIS AND COME CRAWLING BACK TO ME, SO I CAN TAKE CARE OF YOU, LIKE ONLY I CAN DO MY WAY!'

Robby signs, and with a self-confident proud grin tears off the yellow lined legal sized page handing it to you across the counter.

He's completely pushing your button to your bottom line inside! In reaction you decide with your whole body to do it!

Even if he is putting you on, and it's his brand of your married humor, setting you up -- because he actually wrote this, you take the pen, and slowly, clearly with each script letter, sign Mrs. Robert J. England.

Then, you put a line through, across that name, and very legibly sign -- Sheila Lake England. You figure you can't just be your high school name -- Sheila Amber Lake. Too much history reality is involved now 28 years later from your high school fall of 71, especially with a couple of England Agency kids in existence.

You date the page, and after looking at the kitchen clock, the time, Emit, you like to say.

Moving forward to stand left around with him, you firmly reach your right hand straight out to shake, 'THE RULE IS, WE DON T TELL THE KIDS OR ANYONE ABOUT THIS BET, OUR REAL REASON FOR THE DIVORCE! DEAL, ROBBY?'

'Why would you bet for a million dollars already in our joint account?' he says fast with a glint in his eye, liking this fire shining within you.

'I know you would never do something UNSAFE in a desperate situation, Sheila, refusing to use me as a safety net financially,' he markedly says.

Then, he reaches shaking hands with you very firmly, as between a guy and a girl -- like you two never do, being businesslike -- saying, 'With this on paper, signed, we're in agreement.'

You see with a slight smile he really is taking you on, calling your bluff, looking for a tremendous re