Little Dog House on the Prairie

I stopped reading The Weekly Standard regularly several years ago, but I still check in from time to time, mostly just for an Andrew Ferguson article. Scanning the websites, I seemed to have a choice between market-meltdown stories, or Sarah Palin stories. Oh yeah, there's the attack McCain while saying nothing about Obama stories too. I don't know what I can add to any of this that isn't already being said. One article, about the current state of the political race by Naomi Emory got me thinking about the male/female aspect of this years election cycle. On the Obama/Hillary relationship, she writes this gem:

"After he made a point of stressing how little she matters, he now seems to need her more than ever. And she, of course, does not need him."

OK guys, get out your pencils and paper and make a list of how many times you have been in that situation. Too many to remember? Me too. Senator Obama is in a place that my dad used to call "the dog house". I don't know if that term is still in popular use, but it's a place that any man who has any relationship with any woman for any amount of time is well familiar with. And we all know there is only one way out; swallow your pride, say you're sorry, accept the blame, beg for mercy, tell her you love her, and keep your mouth shut for the next two weeks. Even this doesn't work all the time, and it's difficult to see how it could be made into a viable political strategy. Besides, Hillary wouldn't let him set up his teleprompter in her living room anyway.

On what the average voter sees, regarding Hillary and Sarah:

"They perceive, correctly, that each is a woman you would want to have on your wagon train if you were crossing the continent, and to them, each has the same gutsy, tough-woman vibe..."

Wow. There's some food for thought; crossing the plains with Sarah and Hillary. No doubt, either woman could survive the trip in good shape, but from a male perspective, I see some significant differences here. Let us hearken back then, to a simpler time, a time when our nation was young and the possibilities were endless. Our alternate universe begins with Hillary and Local So-and-so, making camp on the North Platte, Kansas Territory, 1852:

She'd be micro-managing the amount of oats in the horse feed and acting like the worlds leading authority on the proper amount of bacon fat to grease the wheel hubs with. She'd be saying things like:

"The fire's too big"; "The fire's too small"; "Don't put that log on, it's too big. Put that other one on. No that one. No the one next to it. OK, whatever, that one's fine."

At some point, say, somewhere between Chimney Rock and the Sweetwater, I'd say one smart-ass remark too many. We'd get into a big argument that would be completely unrelated to anything involving the original issue; like how I left the cover off the water barrel yesterday morning, or the time when I ate the last piece of cornbread without telling anybody. Or the time, three years ago, when I planted 40 acres of barley, thinking it was alphalpha.

"THE BAGS SAID ALPHALPHA, ALRIGHT! THAT'S WHAT THEY SAID!"

I'd spend the rest of the trip, 10 miles a day all the way to Fort Sutter, in the dog house.

Sarah, I think, would let me be in charge of the oats and bacon fat, but she'd check them from time to time. She wouldn't be obvious about it though. She'd wait until I was off in the bushes, doing my business, before she's take a quick peek at the supplies. Climbing down from the wagon, she'd perform a five point inspection of each wheel hub before climbing back in the wagon, and be sitting in the exact same position as when I'd left her.

At night, if she heard a noise outside the wagon, she wouldn't wake me. At least not right away. She'd get up herself, load the Sharpe's carbine, and wake me with 50 grains of black powder going off inches from my head. After swabbing the barrel and stowing the rifle, she'd get back in bed without saying a word. No explanation at all. I wouldn't have to ask either. I'd just figure there was a good reason for it, and go back to sleep.

Sarah would still get ticked off about the lid on the water barrel, just like Hillary would. Women hate that kind of thing. It's hard wired in them. Sarah wouldn't make a fuss about it, she'd just make me feel guilty so I wouldn't forget next time. And, I wouldn't forget the next time. The time after I would.

She'd get back at me for the cornbread by mixing up a batch and then not telling me about it. She'd wait until there was one piece of dry, stale cornbread left, and then tell me. The alphalpha thing would be held in reserve. No sense spending all your ammunition at once. She'd save it for when she really needed to haul out the heavy artillery.

It's easy to imagine Hillary's dog house, but difficult to imagine Sarah's. I know she must have one. They all do. One thing I'd really like to see is an interview with Todd Palin, her husband. It would be on one of those fishing trip shows on cable TV. They'd be out there in the boat, catching this one and that one, and then head back to the cabin. The interview would be just some fellas sitting around a table, talking about fishin' and huntin' and inevitably, the capriscious ways of women. The host would ask him, "So Todd, what really sets her off? What do you definitely not want to do when she's around? Is there anything you've done in your 20 years of marriage, that was so knuckle-dragging stupid, that she just plain lost it?" The answers would decide the election.