Needed to go out to the store last night, so I asked my wife where the car keys were. And then...I heard the most frightening four words that can be bestowed on a man. Theyre in my purse. I scanned the living room, only to realize in a panic that, Sweet Jesus, there are three. I lifted the first. No, not THAT one. she voiced with certain, you dumbass attitude telegraphing. Timidly, I moved onto the next. I looked up for her approval. Eureka. Taking great care, I slowly lifted the bag for the perfect angle to peruse the myriad contents. Sweat formed on my brow. I took a deep breath and slowly lowered a shaking hand into the cauldron of God only knows what, taking great care not to give the impression that I was rummaging, but instead, painstakingly and meticulously, moving one item from its nesting place to have a peek, only to replace it, in its exact spot and move onto the next. She was busy on her iPad, but I sensed one eye on her screen and one on me. More sweat forms. I fumble the debris like an inexperienced schoolboy trying to unlatch a bra hook...with one hand...from the back...in the dark. I tremble with fear. This goes on for what would seem an eternity. My mouth becomes dry, my palms wet. All the while, hearing my Mother in my minds-eye telling me, A gentleman NEVER goes into a womans purse. I feel light-headed...faint. This continues until the frustration reaches a crescendo of defeat. I cowardly hand the pocketbook to her and plead that she utilizes whatever magical skills she has to locate the tools of my liberation. She reaches in...without ever looking down...and in one swift motion, retrieves the keys. To add insult to injury, she looks up at me with that look. I crawl away, tail between my legs, like a scolded monkey.
Posted on: Fri, 18 Apr 2014 12:05:27 +0000
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