“So you’ve got all these single women, driving home from work, exiting off 26 and meandering into town, all reading these signs and potentially assuming the signs are about them. They’re thinking, “Holy Cow, after four years, Buford’s finally popping the question!” And they get all excited, call their girlfriends, start working on their guest list and who they want for bridesmaids, and then they find out it wasn’t their boyfriend who put out the signs, after all. I mean, how devastating. No wonder they’re all cranky today. Typical of you guys not to follow through on detail.”

Paul, satisfied with the storage of his adult beverage, turned from the fridge and leaned against the kitchen counter.

“And typical of you, as a woman, to run off, half-cocked and not think things through.”

“Oh, really?” I asked, smiling and folding my arms.

The terriers felt the tension rising and trotted down the hallway to the guest room.

“Really.” Paul replied. “How do you know it was a man that made those signs, huh? How do you know it wasn’t a woman? Women ask men to marry them.”

“Because,” I said, grasping at straws but not yet conceding defeat, “no woman would be seen dead hammering in ‘will you marry me’ signs. It would make them look way too desperate.”

“And then there’s another way to look at this, too,” said Paul, triumphantly at seeing his verbal check mate come to fruition. “It may have been a man proposing to a man, or a woman proposing to a woman.”

“Oh, whatever!” I retorted, realizing defeat was imminent. “All I know is those signs have irritated every single woman in town.”

Departing the OK corral, Paul muttered under his breath, “And a lot of innocent guys, too.”