Mrs. DampAss had become a chaste woman. There was no other word to describe it. DampAss did not know what to make of this quiet guilty-looking creature his wife had suddenly become -- ever since the disappearance of his trophies. Indeed, she had taken it harder than he had. She no longer screamed or shouted. She no longer shut herself away from him for months on end. She didn’t even try out for movie roles anymore.
Deep inside he wondered what had become of the assertive woman he had married, but he knew better than to ask. It was questions like these that used to get him banned to the west wing of their former mansion for months on end. He had learned well to keep his silence – especially now that they no longer owned a west wing.
He could remember too keenly the fire storm that had exploded over his decision to sell their first mansion two years ago. In vain he explained that he was only acting on financial advice received from a trusted business partner whose job it was to anticipate the ebbs and flows of the market. After DampAss ended up selling her beloved mansion for almost $8. mil less than he initially advertised, Mrs. DampAss was beside herself in rage. DampAss felt deep pain whenever he remembered the many months of his subsequent silent punishment. It was an experience he would avoid at any cost.
At the same time, DampAss did not understand why his wife so stubbornly refused to accept that between her faltering acting career and his declined earnings from tennis, they simply could not afford to keep living in the manner to which they had both become accustomed. Still when he decided to put their second mansion on the market, after owning it for less than a year, he advertised it at an astronomically inflated price. He wanted her to be happy. Instead she had removed herself to the east wing for several painful months.
It was his business partner who eventually helped him realize that his wife’s resistance was less about selling and more about having to downgrade from a mansion to a house. Although there was still enough space for the family, she had had to sacrifice having her own wing to which she could retreat when sulking. They were now an average American family, living in an ordinary house, quite large, yes, but, relatively speaking, still practically on top of each other. Even DampAss felt claustrophobic at times.
But to his utter surprise, just like that his wife had abruptly stopped complaining. Instead she quietly set about adjusting to their new home. She even praised the fact that they had economized by getting rid of half of their staff. DampAss was shocked. Who was this woman? What had become of his wife? And how long would this new phase last?
At breakfast one morning, wanting to find a safe topic of conversation, he made a joke that Joker-Bitch seemed like he was about to steal his thunder.
“What do you mean Dampy?” she asked affectionately, sipping her macchiato.
“Novak Djokovic. That Serbian dude who keeps beating his chest everytime he wins? Well he’s been on a winning streak since the year started. Nobody has beat him yet, not even Nadal on clay! And at the rate he’s going, I don’t think Federer will ever get the chance to surpass me with the most weeks at #1. Joker-Bitch will shut him out! LOL!”
“I don’t understand sweetie. Explain it to me again. What does this have to do with Federer?”
“Well my record is 286 weeks at #1, you see. And Federer has been stalled at 285 weeks for ages. One less than me, but still too damn close!” DampAss snickered uncomfortably. “But the one good thing about this Djokovic run is that he is actually helping me to keep my winning record because Federer can’t beat him either! Go Joker-Bitch!!!” And DampAss hoisted a piece of buttered English muffin into the air, allowing it to plop into his wide open mouth...
“Speaking of which!” he continued, munching, “Would you believe that Joker-Bitch is actually allergic to gluten? Turns out that is why he was always sniffing all the time and couldn’t win a damn match to save his life! Apparently his doctors have now discovered that he has a gluten allergy. Changed his diet and now he is winning like a fricking maniac! Thank you Joker-Bitch!!!”
Across the table, Mrs. DampAss realized that this was her moment to exact revenge against a husband who had forced her to endure months of public humiliation. Downgrading from two mansions to a g-damn house indeed. While her husband continued chewing contentedly, Mrs. DampAss left the table to fetch pen and paper and started making her weekly shopping list. She wrote the word ‘gluten’ at the top of the first page, and smiled darkly. Across the table DampAss swallowed, and wondered for the umpteenth time how he had gotten so damn lucky.
photo for my friend with a crush...Djoko at Cannes "Fashion For Relief"