I am losing my house. I may be the man of the house, but I am being gently eased into a figurative closet by the women in my home. How do I know this? My dog told me. Really.
I fell asleep on my recliner last night in front of football. When I awoke, my dog was no longer at my feet. I found her, quite content, upstairs, lying next to my wife who was watching something that was not football. It’s time to put my manly foot down. Tonight, I am going to declare that I am keeping my hunting jacket.
I don’t hunt, of course. I’ve got nothing against hunting, it’s just never interested me. But on Sunday, my daughter and I went shopping. (She explained to me that taking her shopping would be good father-daughter bonding time.) We wandered into the Ralph Lauren Store. I tried on this jacket that’s meant to look like an old leather hunting jacket. It even has pockets for bullets and any ducks I kill. My daughter thought it looked great on me so, rather impulsively, I bought it. My wife, I learned about an hour later, hates it.
I was going to return it. But not now. I’m not going to be pushed around anymore. You may take my dog but you will have to wrestle my hunting jacket from my cold, dead, well, really nice wooden Ralph Lauren hanger in my closet. Because I got some duck to put in that special pocket in my new jacket. I just have to call the Ralph Lauren Store and ask which pocket is for the plum sauce.