I had just settled in to eat lunch: drained Albacore Tuna on white, with mustard, thick slab of sharp cheddar; a healthy round of Bermuda onion- no lettuce, no tomato- salt, pepper, a glass of ice cold milk and lots of Tobasco™…
A regular poor, white trailer-trash belly buster!
I would rather have had a beer- a fruity and playful, yet sophisticated Weiss summer blend, because, well, after all, I was serving fish- but I am trying to trim a few pounds, so, I went with the 2% dairy, and no Mayo. She came around the corner and surprised me.
“Does this dress make me look fat?” She asked me as she twirled on her heels.
I froze. Maybe if I didn’t move, she wouldn’t see me?
“Well?” She asked.
Too late. I had been spotted and my sandwich wasn’t big enough to hide behind.
1) I wasn’t there!
2) I didn’t do it!- and,
3) I have an alibi!
Unfortunately, these don’t work for police interrogations and strip searches- it was dark, I was drunk, don’t ask- or open-ended questions from your spouse like,
“Does this dress make me look fat?”
Precious seconds ticked away. It was too late to make a break for it. She had already seen me, and I didn’t dare tell her the truth, that would only get me more time in the Doghouse, even if I told her, “No.”, because then I would have to explain ‘Why’, in great detail, she didn’t look fat!
You better have a reason, and three would be an improvement, because the more confusion you can inject into this very dangerous and volatile situation, the less chance you have of being pinned down, where you might just slip up and tell the truth. Believe me, nobody, especially not her, wants the truth!
Three chapters further along in the big book of the DHMF, (Doghouse Manifesto), under the title: ESCAPE- EVADE & SURVIVE– the instructions say quite clearly, that when giving your name, rank and serial number are not sufficient, you should always answer a question with another question. In order for this to work, of course, your brain has to be in gear and actually functioning: two things that are rare for most men, and it presupposes the interrogator is a man, not a woman, and/or that most women are stupid- which as we all know, they aren’t. (In my humble opinion, this is one chapter of the Doghouse Manifesto that should be eliminated, extensively edited, or very sharply revised and clarified, because it is just wrong, wrong, wrong!)
“Uhm… do you think that dress makes you look fat, Sweety?” I gulped.
Her eyes got narrow. She furrowed her brow and pursed her lips. She was thinking. (%#$*&!) I was doomed.
“I asked you first…” Her words were careful, terrifyingly calm and measured.
“Well…” I began.
“AHA!” She shrieked. “I knew it!”
She scared me so bad; I dropped my sandwich.
“What, ‘AHA’? (!)” I whined. “I didn’t say anything yet!”
She stood there, hands on her hips with her hooded eyes burning holes into my deflated chest.
“You hesitated. That’s the same thing as calling me fat!”
You could have used my eyes to spotlight deer on a stretch of lonely Hollywood horror-film highway.
“It is not!” I finally exclaimed.
She pointed her bony index finger at me. (I hate that!)
“Then, just what did you mean by, ‘Well…?’”
I was scrambling. I was Rope-a-Doping to save my ass, but I was still taking a beating.
“Well…” I began again.
“AHA!” She shrieked even louder.
Eightball, who had been snoozing and farting peacefully away in his daybed, leapt to his feet, ran into the other room and slammed the door to his doghouse. Yeah. Like that was going to help.
“What, ‘AHA?’ (!) Will stop shouting ‘AHA!’ and give me a chance to answer you?” I yelled.
Her eyes got narrow. She furrowed her brow and pursed her lips.
“There’s no reason to bark at me.” She stuck out her lower quavering lip. Her eyes moistened. She was about to cry.
Uh-oh… Kryptonite! No evasion, no argument; no alibi, lie, story or artificially inflated confusion trumps a crying woman.
“I was just trying to look nice for you…” her pitiful voice trailed off into a half-choked sob.
I stood, walked around my spilled Tuna sandwich, wrapped my arms around her, kissed her tenderly on the cheek, and in my warmest, most sincere voice told her,
“Aw, baby, you’d look good to me even if you were naked.”
I knew, as soon as I said it, it came out wrong.
“EVEN NAKED?! Just what the hell is THAT supposed to mean?!” She screeched sarcastically.
I tried to stay her with pleading prayer hands.
“Honey, that didn’t come out right. Believe me, nobody wants to see you naked…”
“No, no… I mean, nobody but me…”
In the big book of the DHMF, (Doghouse Manifesto) rule 8,659 of the chapter titled: WHEN THE HOLE GETS TOO DEEP- STOP DIGGING!– Under the subheading of: SEVEN CURES FOR WELL-DIGGER’S BUTT: it categorically states; “Contrary to common belief, digging a hole deeper will not help you to get out. Stop digging and step away from the shovel.”
She yanked herself away from me and stomped down the hallway toward the bedroom.
“That’s not what I meant!” I called desperately as I ran after her.
“Yeah, ’ Well…’” she mimicked me perfectly as she slammed the door, “that’s what you said!”
I stood outside the door and begged.
“Honey…” I pleaded.
There followed a sound that I immediately recognized as one of her high-heels hitting the other side of the door.
“You must like sleeping with Eightball, ‘cause you’re going to be doing it for a long time!”
I suppose, at this point, that it doesn’t count that I still want to see her naked?
* sigh *
My Dear Readers- my book, A DogHouse Manifesto, is now available for purchase and is listed by title at PublishAmerica, Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble.com and other fine book-sellers worldwide.
A DogHouse Manifesto © by Mitchell L. Peterson.
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