The Trouble With Women

Where to start.  K's concern that for her birthday I would again bestow upon her something that was rated in amperes rather than carats spurred her to present me with a jeweler's card replete with contact person, catalogue number, and the all-important weight in carats.  What this approach lacks sponteneity it more than makes up for as a time saver for the shopping impaired.

So I surreptitiously tradfat to the appointed shop, purchase said baubel (a fractional number that could only be a ring size had thoughtfully been written on the back of the business card) leave it to be sized, pick it up two days later, and secrete it in the garage.

Tonight comes said savvy shopper, all serious faced, with news she has something on her mind we need to talk about.  Has any man ever emerged from a "we need to talk" talk unscathed?

A picture of buddha-like serenity under even this close scrutiny, though my pulse was racing like a crack addict's, I lowered the tv volume, turned slowly, then sweetly said "Of course, beloved.  What up?"

"That ring I wanted?  Remember?"  Regaining my interior composure I slyly feign having forgotten, then suddenly remember "Oh!  Yeah!" 

"Do you still have that business card I gave you?"  The picture of concentration now.  "I'm sure it's around here someplace."  Face gets pouty.  Posture slouches.  The "I'm sooooo disappointed in you" look she's never had occasion to use before.  "Well, I just got my hands massaged and oiled at the spa today, and, Can I Get It?"

This is what I'm talking about.  That's supposed to be the logic that turns me around?

"Sure!" says I.  Silence.  A long one.  "Wasn't that the right answer?"  I'm innocent and a little hurt, my tone implies.  "Well, yes, but there were two right answers"  "Well at least I got one of them, huh?" milking it now.

Long story short, she gets the ring a week early, is happy as can be, and I get an extra dollpo of syrup on my ice cream tonight.