I was reminded of those furry mammals that find themselves frozen in the headlights of oncoming  18-wheelers. Slowly he closed his eyes and crossed his arms defensively. He looked like a well-preserved Egyptian mummy and appeared to have about as much life in him.

 (Great. Another one of those "Truth or Dare" moments in our marriage. No matter what I say, I'm doomed. If  I say her head reminds me of a basketball, only without the writing, I'm gonna eat peanut and jelly for a month. If I say I haven't noticed, she'll turn off the game and give me one of those long,  taking-each-other-for granted speeches. Then I'll get the peanut butter and jelly sandwich and miss the end of the game to boot. If I say her hair looks fine, she'll want to know what I mean by "fine". And I'll just paint myself into another corner.  Now I know how the terrorist in a Bruce Willis movie feels -- there's no way out.)

  I stood there for a moment, watching his eyelids twitch. There was no other other movement. Lesser women might have given up up at this point, but not me. I came for an answer and I don't quit until I get one.

 "Well? Does this color look too orangey?" I asked, leaning over to see if he was still breathing. His nostril hair quivered ever so slightly.

 (It must be a woman thing. They like to dangle you over a pit of vipers and then ask you whether you want them to cut the rope with scissors or with a knife. It's the lady behind one door and the tiger behind the other. No matter what I do I'm cooked, dead meat, finished, kaput.)

 He was as still as a dead skunk. But his finger had moved just a little bit a few seconds ago, so I knew he was still in there. Why is that men have such a problem answering the simplest of questions? Why is it that every time I want his opinion on how something looks on me or whether I'm gaining weight, this intelligent, take-charge kind of guy is reduced to a babbling blob? What's wrong with guys anyway? Women don't have problems giving opinions. Maybe it's a man thing.

 "I know you're awake. I want an answer. I'm burning dinner, so get with it!" I said impatiently, my hands on my hips, orange -- uh, auburn -- hair flying wildly.

 (So that's what I smell. Oh well, I'm getting the old Peter Pan anyway, so what difference does it make? Of course, if she's mad, she'll probably grab that big jar of plain grape jelly -- the ones the kids leave chunks of peanut butter in -- instead of the good stuff, the cherry preserves. My answer could still affect my stomach. Hey, is that a rumble I hear? Why does she do this right at dinnertime? I feel like a contestant on "Let's Make A Deal", only there's a goat behind all three doors.)

 He lapsed into steady, rhythmic breathing, but he didn't fool me. I heard his stomach rumble.

 "Hey," I yelled. "Look at that hit! Wow!"

 He fell for it. Up he jumped, lunging for the television screen, but instead of a spectacular  run, he saw a catfood commercial. All's fair in baseball and hair. Glumly, he turned to me.

 "I'll take door number three," he said.

 Men. I stalked off,  looking for my son. Maybe he'd tell me the truth.  As I climbed the stairs, I heard a voice call plaintively.

 "Would you please make it with cherry preserves?"

 You know, I think that man watches way too much television.