Most of you Rookie Husbands would have either:
1—Said something stupid, like, “I dunno,” confirming to your daughter the concept of Don’t Ask Daddy Anything of Importance About a Man, Ask a Girlfriend/Aunt/Girl Cousin/or Even Mother, Just as Long as It’s Not Anybody Who Is Actually a Man, Because Men Are Such Idiots!
You get the idea.
Reaffirming the idea to your wife the idea of He’s Lying, He Knows Fully Dang Well He’d Be Hypnotized By Those Big Breasts, So Why Isn’t He Looking At MY Breasts? Are They Too Small? My Breasts Are Too Small? It’s My Mother’s Fault, Because She Had Small Breasts, So Why Is He Blaming ME For MY Small Breasts? It’s Because Men Are Such Idiots!
And, there you go.
Oh, wait, I almost forgot, there’s a #2:
Some of you would have tried to smoove your way out of it by saying something like, “I would gaze into her eyes, her breasts wouldn’t have distracted me…”
Do I really need to go into the machine-gun fire you would have gotten from both sides of the table?
Mistrust from your wife, disgust from your daughter.
NOT the way to go.
No, my friends, in situations like this, when an enemy mammary battery is pointed your way (try to say that fast 3 times), and two snipers are waiting for one false move, what do you do?
What DO You DO?
Sisters, you need to shush for a minute. Some of you people have been spending a little too much time tuning in to Dr. Phil, and you need help!
Enter Dr. Matlock, HNIC. For free, at that.
“Mmrrph,” I mumbled, wiping hot sauce/oyster juice off my chin.
“Quit stalling,” my wife said, “answer the question. What would you do?”
I looked at her. She was leaning forward, with Expression # 18—Whatever You Say Can and Will Be Used Against You. I made a brushing motion on my cheek, like there was something on her face that needed to be wiped off. Under normal conditions, she would have ignored that, but Super Soul Sister/Ow She’s A Brick Haawwse was at the next table, and that created waaay too much pressure. She dug in her purse, and pulled out her compact mirror; this was an emergency.
Having dispatched Sniper #2, I turned my attention to Sniper-in-Training. “Baby,” I said calmly, “I would tell her, with a smile, of course, that her cleavage is a beautiful distraction. Sometimes, a man’s best option is to take the bull by the horns.”
“Or, take the cow by the udder! Haaa!” She erupted with laughter; her mother joined her. “Take the cow by the udder!” she repeated; they both thought that was real funny. Took ‘em both about two or three minutes to get it out of their systems. I mentally rolled my eyes, but I hid behind Expression # 6B—Sheepish Grin, and let them have their fun. I was off the hook, and I had another wisecrack left in my evening’s quota. Life was good.
The waiter was walking toward the Swirl Table, with two glasses of wine. Now, I had to give White Guy his props—obvious first date with S.S.S., took her to a nice restaurant, ordered wine; nervousness notwithstanding, he had obviously gotten some quick Smoove Operator training from somebody; probably from Tyrone in Accounting.
(Jerome in the Mailroom would have steered him to the Rib Shack or Chick’n In A Basket. You know how brothers can be sometimes.)
“Oohh, wine!” S.S.S exclaimed. “I hope it’s cold! Me, I likes my wine ice-cold!”
“Lord, have mercy,” my wife said, shaking her head.
“Dog-gone!” my daughter exclaimed. “I was getting ready to give Sister Girl some credit. Now she goes and says something crazy like that!”
“Now, don’t be so quick to judge,” I began, but two pairs of laser-like glares stopped me in my tracks.
What had I said now???