The moon she lies. So does my husband, Bernie. To be fair, I do believe him when his says he doesn’t lie intentionally. He’s an odd combination of a guy who is confrontationally adverse and swept away by the all-encompassing descriptor “passion”. Something sparked in him when we took our daughter on the college tours. Bernie heard the directive from the Admissions Person “we want to know what your passion is” and took it personally. I remember one night in the hotel room, with my daughter’s ears covered by her “shut out the world” headphones, Bernie whispered that he was unsure how he would answer the question of “passion”. Just to give you a sense of scale and lapsed time, my daughter is now in grad school, pursing a degree in, of all things, economics. Since that night, my Bernie has spent his spare time ping-ponging from one hobby to the next. To my mind, he’s squandering our nest egg on idle pursuits. I used to pay all the bills, but lately, Bernie has switched us to e-billing. He says it’s easier and will help save the planet. Maybe. Or maybe he doesn’t want me to find out that the cost of buying and shipping stain glass, his latest passion, equals that of a weekend for two in the Poconos.