Copyright 1992(c)

                      A Ruby Begonia Column
                         By Del Freeman

       I'M WITH THE PRESIDENT...DOMESTIC AFFAIRS BAFFLE ME.
  
     I see by the old clock on the wall that Thanksgiving is once
more looming ominously on the horizon. It is that period when I
am always filled with awe at the ability of my co-workers to earn
a steady living AND bake bread with fruit in it.
     You see, I am a product of the television age. I saw the
original Lucy Show the first time around. 
     And television has brought some wonderful things into my
life - Bobby McFarren, Liza Minelli, I, Claudius, and that guy
with the thingamajiggit that dices, splices, shreds, chops,
purees and gives you a pedicure, all for only $19.95.  
     Television has also led me to expect certain results which 
have been somewhat exaggerated, like that kid in the wedding  
commercial whose poise and aplomb when he gives the best man  
toast is a direct result of the brand of deodorant he uses. I  
tried them all, and while one gave me a rash even the
dermatologist couldn't identify, none of them improved my public
speaking.  
     Unquestionably the most disappointing expectation of the
tube, however, is that wives and mothers cook.
     I don't cook. My idea of "fixing" dinner is to take it out
of the carton and put it on a paper plate. I have only one method
of preparing your basic raw food - fast fry. And, I have my
husband, David, convinced that I'm afraid of electricity. 
     "I don't understand it, I don't trust it, I think it's a
product of the devil," I say. 
     I make the sign of the cross, shy away from the stove, and
just keep repeating, "No habla en engles," when he starts hinting
somebody should cook something. My answer to 'Who's cooking
Thanksgiving dinner?' is invariably "Morrison's!" 
     Recently, we heard about another wonderful invention on that 
marvel of information - television. Somebody, somewhere has built
a "smart house."   
     "This is it," I said in an excited fever. "Get the pen and 
write down the address because we have got to send off for one of
these."  
     Another disappointment! Do you know what they are calling a
"Smart House?" It's one of those energy efficient, ecologically 
sympathetic structures where the lights click on by themselves,  
powered by solar energy; and the lawn sprinklers automatically  
function using rainwater that has been stored in a specially  
constructed container somewhere on the roof or something.  
     What a rip-off! Obviously our scientists are impossibly  
confused. Somebody should have asked me, because I know what a  
smart house really is.  
     A smart house knows it's a process server or a bill
collector on the doorstep, and promptly zaps enough electricity
through the doorbell to fry their hair without actually
lobotomizing them.  
     It knows it's your mother-in-law with another half-dozen of
those recipes she claims your husband loves, and he claims make 
him gag and break out in hives, and it closes the garage door so
she can't see your car.  
     In a truly smart house, the trash doesn't pile up and nobody
has to worry about taking it out. A smart house has Mission  
Impossible trash - the kind that self-immolates. In a smart  
house, the trash takes care of itself because it, too, is smart.
     And a truly smart house has an oven that can cook a turkey
to perfection without all that basting or whatever it is that
takes so much time and makes you sweat.
     You'd think if people are going to put this kind of time and
energy into designing something, they'd take these kinds of  
things into consideration, wouldn't you? But no-o-o-o-o!  
     So, here I sit, my hopes and aspirations once again dashed;
my expectations nil; my family gazing expectantly at me with
hungry eyes.
     Fortunately, this year I have planned ahead. I am prepared.
Not only will the family have a lovely Thanksgiving dinner
without leaving the comfort of their happy home, I have devised
something unique for them. I mean, everybody has baked turkey and
mashed potatoes and that red stuff nobody eats. Where's the
thrill in that? 
     I just hope I can work all the details out in time for
Thanksgiving, and that the local Taco Bell manager can recognize
the marketability of turkey nachos.
                              END