#2 son has Health class this year. In it, he tells me, he had to admit that he exercises regularly and “has to eat lots of whole grains because my mom’s a health nut.”

His teacher told him it was nothing to be ashamed of. That’s a relief.

So, last night, after feeding my poor children whole-wheat spaghetti and homemade whole-wheat bread (and salad and grapes, too, poor children), I went off to class and the boys went to the gym. So far, an ordinary sort of evening.

But when I came home — arriving just as the boys did — my husband had Philly Cheese Steak Pockets in the oven and was watching Nashville Star. It was like being in someone else’s house. I sat down to try to re-chart Erin’s missing inch and watched it with him.

It was interesting, in a novelty sort of way, but I had the reaction I always do have when I incautiously watch a reality show — I am so sorry for the victim of the program. In this case, ten people sing country songs and one of them gets thrown out each night till the remaining person wins the tontine or whatever it is.

Last night, in spite of there being a funny-looking guy who couldn’t sing, one who said he would shoot people who got in his way and sounded like a specially-prepared generic country singer guy, and a girl with a fine voice who was singing Broadway style (and the cruel judge told her so, too), the one they sent home was the old one. She did a good job, but she was 31. Obviously too old for the reality show.

They also spoke scornfully to the one who yodeled. This was wrong. As I told my husband, you might not like to listen to it, but hardly anyone can do it. That ought to count for something.

My husband really likes reality shows. He has strong if quixotic feelings about the participants. He is rooting for the funny-looking one who can’t sing. There was a complex reason for this preference, but I have forgotten it now. He and the boys ate their Philly Cheese Steak Pockets and ice cream and then said they were all still hungry. My husband said it was because they had not eaten rice. So there I was in a bizarre parallel Boy Universe, listening to somebody yodel. 

I could have been in a bizarre parallel girl universe, though. There was Fellowship after class last night. Some of you may not know that “fellowship” is a special church word. Depending on your denomination, it can mean a party, food, hanging out only with other Christians, or some other surprising thing. Some denominations do not use it at all, and some use it as a verb. In this case, it means that we can talk freely with the other ladies in our small group, instead of sticking to our carefully-prepared lesson.

In my case, this is not a good thing. You know that I am a mild-mannered matron who sings in the choir. The other ladies in my small group think that I am a dangerous radical. Or possibly worse. And while I can enjoy their views on whether Jacob ever grew to love Leah or not, I tend to be appalled by the kinds of things they say in unfettered discussions. So I guess I think they are dangerous radicals, too. It is better for us all if I do not attend fellowship.

As The Empress said yesterday, “There are people who admit to being Republicans without any embarrassment.”

As for the chart, Kali Mama can get it from the library, and will send me the missing inch. Since I own the book and she is getting it from the library, this copying falls under “fair use” and should not make anyone raise his or her eyebrows.

So, secure in the knowledge that whatever I mess up can be fixed, I went ahead and charted from the already-knitted part and did a couple of rows. I can always take it out.