The Master Manipulator

I'm sort of an "out there person," to borrow a phrase from my Aunt Cess. What you see is what you get. You will know my mood in one minute. Experience has taught the husband to figure it out in five seconds. He reacts accordingly. Well, most of the time. Sometimes he just says, "Get over yourself." I'm not a schemer. I'm stubborn and I want things my way but I will be in up front and honest about it. Yet, I'm pretty good at compromise or negotiations.

I live with the Master Manipulator. I watch and I vacillate between awe and repulsion. She's good. She's damn good.

She somehow gets her way every time. She does it with the Unabomber. She does it with children and grandchildren. Every once in a while, Big Daddy will say to me, "Do you think she's manipulating me?" Float there for a minute. "Yes, and she's doing it well."

Manipulation is not something I aspire to. I prefer to duke it out. I prefer to walk out of the room or grab a whacker and thump the offending party on the head. I don't like to guess when you're angry with me or what I could do differently. Just tell me. Let me defend myself or ask your forgiveness.

I had an email from the daughter this morning. No pretense -- just something that's bugging her. I will fix it. She is right; I am wrong. It's so refreshing to deal with an issue and tackle it head on. Thank God, she missed the gene of manipulation.

I Just Happened to Overhear

Now, there's a phrase that will stop you in your tracks.

We have two married couples living in close quarters. Of course, we all hear things we shouldn't have heard. It can be funny and/or unnerving. I'm seriously considering soundproofing my closet.

The oldies are refined for public consumption. Other times, I overhear a conversation that wouldn't be printed in Southern Living magazine. I'm a barker and a snapper. I try very hard not to do this with the oldies. So, the husband takes the bulk of my wrath. I'm a slow learner ... I'm trying to stop doing this in public.

Once we get home, I will pull him into the closet, whacker in hand.

The Whacker

We have a crazy dog. She's still a puppy but she also has a very determined personality. She obeys Big Daddy somewhat. With me, she just goes ahead with whatever she wants to do. (The husband says I managed to adopt a dog with my personality.)

So, I started using a whacker. It's a rolled-up newspaper that I usually hit against the counter or some other surface to get her attention. I have whacked her bottom, although not hard enough to stop her. I have multiple whackers in every room.

The other night, the husband and I got into a little tiff. Unfortunately, it was in front of the oldies. I'm not proud of myself but I did tell him to shut up. When he didn't, I announced that I would wait for him to fall asleep and then beat him to a pulp. (I could only do this while he's sleeping; he's twice my size.) When we went to bed that night, he took a whacker with him. He was afraid he might need to defend himself.

We met some friends for dinner last night. We arrived first and had a drink at the bar. The husband was annoying me. I spotted a stack of newspapers behind the bar area so I grabbed one and asked the bartender for a rubber band. She complied. He was laughing at me but by the time our friends arrived, he was back in line. I carried the whacker to our table and I believe everyone used it at least once. Instead of, "please pass the salt," our conversation was, "May I please have the whacker?"

The oldies would never use a whacker. They're too gentile. I think they need to loosen up a bit.

The whacker is my weapon of choice. To paraphrase those old American Express commercials, "Never leave home without it."