Rose and Charlie WC 300

A Sunday With Rose and Charlie

I was enjoying a peaceful Sunday when my wife opened my mancave door, sticking her head inside my domain.

“Charlie, I—”

“Tell them I'm not here, Rose,” I said, “and tell whoever it is that I—”

“In the first place, Charles, you don't have to snap at me,” she said, louder than necessary.

Rose never calls me Charles. Not unless she’s peeved.

“And in the second place, Mister—”

“I'm sorry Rose,” I said, interrupting again, “but I'm trying to enjoy my Sunday.”

She has never called me Mister. I think I’m in the doghouse.

“And I'm trying to enjoy my Sunday! Does that not matter?”

“Right now? No! It's called self-preservation!”

“I see,” she said and turned toward the door, slamming it behind her.

Now I was curious. Who had come by to disrupt my Sunday?

I ventured into the kitchen. Rose was standing at the sink, looking out at the yard.

“So who was it?”

She turned and stared at me. “Oh, no one important. Just Publishers’ Clearing House, balloons and all, cameras running.”

“Holy macaroni! Are you kidding me?”

I have waited for them to select my name for years. I finally decided it was fake—and now this.

“Can I call them?”

“No, Charles you can’t.”

“What do we do, Rose?”

“We?”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the room.

Publishers’ Clearing House. Oh, my Heavens! And I turned them away. I sat down at the kitchen table and put my cheek against the cool Formica top.

“I was kidding.”

“What?” I sat up.

“I wanted to see if you would watch Casa Blanca with me and you got all weird thinking your Sunday was being intruded upon. So I made it up!”

I’ll never believe my wife ever, ever again!