My Night As A Prisoner of War

People of a certain age will remember that old video we all saw in 11th grade world history class showing the black inky expansion of Nazi dominance across Europe. With ominous Wagner music pounding in the background, the Nazi menace slowly expanded into every crevice of the European map looking evil and malignant with bad intentions...

Now, all these years later, I finally know how poor little Spain felt in this picture. You see, my house, what used to be referred to as my castle, has been overrun by a pack of female invaders. I have been forced to retreat into the last foothold left to me, upstairs in my 12x10 last stand of a hideout. I have been given an eleventh hour pardon by the invaders and told that if I remain hidden, neither seen nor heard, I might be spared. What provocation brought on this naked aggression, you may be asking yourself. Let me attempt an answer.

This past week, two female members of my wife’s family—the White’s—had birthdays, my sainted Mother in Law and Pam’s kid sister, Angie who as fate would have it turned the big 50. Of course my wife simply couldn’t let such an event pass without an appropriate celebration. Thinking about this led inexorably to the seed of a plan hatched somewhere in the dark, jungle-heated corners of her brain whereby it was decided that all of the female members of the White family would come over here for a fiftieth birthday bash, sleepover  and facial party/movie night. Practically rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? 

Just before I was banished upstairs I was able to take a few pictures for the upcoming war crimes tribunal...

Gift bags...better known as munitions, or if you prefer...weapons of mass hysteria.

Provisions, featuring not one, but TWO fondue pots. Chocolate or cheese. Pick your poison.

Behold my rations. This will be exhibit A in my petition to The Hague  pursuant to my rights under the Geneva convention. Len Tuck, call your office!

Plunder.

Perhaps the cruelest cut of all are the little bags of Linder Truffles place on every bed in the house except whatever cot they have planned for me.

Although Lucy is clearly furious at this humiliating turn of fortune, she did appreciate the fact that she was given a bag of truffles and I wasn’t.

So, after the toughest week of my professional career, my reward is submission to the Imperialist Invading Force. There is no baseball to watch. No March Madness. No hockey or pro basketball. Just me and my faithful dog with the Coronavirus lurking out there waiting for me to make a mistake.

Your prayers would be appreciated.