The Power of the Purple Shirt

Most husbands show their love a variety of ways. The occasional bouquet of flowers, a shiny bauble or even the impromptu picking up their shit dirty socks with out being asked.

Not my man.

No, he prefers a bolder method of announcing his love.

He buys me appliances. Now that my friends, is true love.

After seeing me stroking Karen and George and whispering sweet words of love to them countless times over how efficient the new appliances were, he decided it was time to replace several other appliances, namely our fridge, stove and deep freezer.

In his mind, appliances equal unbridled sex.

In my mind, appliances equal well, unbridled sex. (There is a reason we have been happily married for so long. This man gets me.)

Because his plans for the summer fell through and he spent the majority of it busting his ass, surrounded by other sweaty men busting their asses, instead of at home with his family, he decided to bribe pony up a few grand to add to our clan of shiny new electronic appliances.

I now have a sparkling white, energy efficient, french door, bottom pullout-freezer-drawer refrigerator; a glass top stove with convention oven that is electric blue on the inside (for all that baking I never do); and a stand up deep-freeze so that I may never again bend over and fall into our chest high freezer while searching for that last elusive package of ground beef.

He's so thoughtful it kills me.

However, since he is out of town and the appliance dudes called to say they were on their way out with our new family members, I had a bit of a problem. How the hell was I going to get the old ones out of my house to make room for the new ones with the spagetti arms I sport? The kids would be of no assistance, a strong wind could blow them away. I was on my own with no muscle in site to lend a hand.

I did what any good wife would do.

I called up Boo to whine about my hardship. He, however, was unsympathetic.

"Just ask the delivery guys to move them for you."

No shit sherlock. Like I hadn't thought of that. "Thanks Boo, but when they called for directions this morning, the lady clearly stated it wasn't in the men's job description to remove old appliances, just bring in the new ones."

Like, duh.

"Well, I guess you're scewed. Listen, I've gotta go. Someone is on fire and we want to stand around and roast marshmallows while we wait for the rescue team to arrive."

"Wow. You really are helpful today. Have fun with that." Asshole. Since he was about as interested in my dilemma as he was in tweezing my nose hairs, I wandered into my closet and thought to myself, how would a resourceful, pathetically weak, with no one to call, woman solve this problem?"

The answer was folded up neatly on the top shelf.

The purple shirt.

Aha!

Noting the time, I quickly ran to the bathroom, shook out my hair and gave it a good brushing, slapped on some blush, dug through my mound of folded, yet still-not-put-away clothing and pulled out my secret weapon.

Shrugging into the slightly ill-fitting, yet surprisingly flattering white pushup bra, I grabbed the purple shirt and tossed it on just as the delivery truck was beeping it's way up my driveway.

Praying I wouldn't scar my kids for life, I figured I had two options. First option, I could pretend to be in a delicate condition. Men are suckers for knocked up chicky, stuck in the woods with out a big, strapping man to help her out.

If that didn't work, I'd use plan B.

I'd push up the girls and bat my eyelashes. After all, what good are newly grown guns if they can't get a few men to move some heavy, old appliances for her?




One step closer to living like a true hillbilly...



Why thank you, gentlemen, this is too kind of you.

I do feel a little bad. My darling bird Lester decided to pull a Houdini and escape his cage. Before I could catch him he landed on one of the men's shoulders and took a dump.

He wasn't amused.

Secretly, I was. But only after wishing the earth would open up and swallow me. As I blushed with mortification, my fucking, soon to have his feathers plucked bird chirped happily and then squeezed between his birdcage bars, safe from my grasp to have a laugh on the stupid humans.

After wishing me and the kids well while staring at my cleavage, the men climbed into their big truck to go deliver more appliances like manna from heaven. As the kids were hauling the boxes off into the woods to go make a fort, the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Did you get the appliances moved, darlin?" I could hear the sound of money being made in the background as Boo spoke.

"Sure did. And the new appliances are soooo pretty. I can't wait to rub them."

"Anything to make you happy sugar. Just remember who your daddy is when I get home."

"Oh that won't be hard to forget. It has to be the appliance dude. Even our bird, Lester, loved him."

"Very funny. Did you have any problems getting them to move the old appliances for you?"

"Nah. It was easier than I thought."

"Really. How'd you manage that?" I could tell he was really curious now. "Did you offer them favours?

"No funny man. They were charmed by me and my natural assets."

"You mean you had your boobs hanging out."

"Yep. A girl has to do what a girl has to do."

"Harumph." Apparently, he didn't like this too much.

"Don't worry Boo. I wore the purple shirt. They thought I was knocked up. They felt sorry for me, what with two wild children, a festering bird and no man in sight. They were just being kind. Suckers." Snicker.

"You're horrible."

"Yah, but I'm horrible with three spanky new appliances and the old ones out on the deck. I think I may have to wear this shirt and wander around town looking for buyers who need slightly used, old appliances for cheap."

"I'm gonna burn that shirt when I get home."

"Ah honey. I love you too."






I have no shame. I admit it.




It's a wee fuzzy but you get the idea.

A Big Wiener

Having the spousal unit work out of town and only make infrequent appearances on our doorstep has made for some interesting parental problems. I'm not really a single momma, yet I don't have the hands on, daily support of a live-in baby daddy.

Which means, I'm a single momma with a sugar daddy, legally obligated to stay at home, mind his nest, spend his money and not flirt with other boys.

There are no rules for flirting with other girls, however.

Hey, how YOU doing, Sandra and Jen? Why don't the two of you slide on over here and come talk to Big Red?

So many women, so little time.

I digress. I'm one of the lucky ladies out there. I've got a man who loves me, is gorgeous, a great provider, a wonderful father, and more importantly, leaves me to my own devices more times than not.

Life is gooooood.

The dark side to being a single parent 80 percent of the time, (besides having to take out the trash myself, police the children, and become best friends with my buddy, Mr. Rabbit) is I can not go anywhere without my children unless I dig deep into my pockets and shell out a small fortune into the hands of a shifty eyed teen I have to entrust my children to.

After all, a girl can only go begging for baby-sitting to her MIL so many times before rumours start to swirl.

Which means, where I go, they go.

Need a new bra? Let's go, kids. And Frac, try not to put the big ones on your head and chase your sister around the store. It's not cute.

Need feminine hygiene products? Come on, kidlets, momma needs some cotton. Don't ask, don't look and please don't talk loudly when we are checking out said items.

Ran out of Irish Cream for my coffee? Let's go to the liquor store babies! Momma needs her juice.

Now that my darlings are a bit older, things are slightly easier. I no longer lose them in the store aisles, I don't have to worry about potty breaks and they generally do what they are told.

(All right. I bribe them. But still. They respond to it.)

Of course, there are hazards. Like last Friday, when we headed off into the great big city to stock up on food supplies.

After refereeing a fight over who gets to push the grocery cart, everything went fairly smooth. We were laughing, co-operating and having a good time in the midst of the big box grocery chain. I preened with pride, feeling like I was Mommy of the Year, setting an example for all the other harried parents in the store.

Watch me and learn, earthlings. Bwhahahaha!

Soon our cart was piled high with food stuff and Fric and Frac struggled to steer the behemoth cart down the aisles. No problem. Mommy to the rescue. Except every time I tried to push the cart, the damn thing would squeal loudly and draw the attention of all the non-squealing, perfect, cart-pushing shoppers around us.

Which made us laugh harder. Because it only squealed when I touched the darned thing. Which I had to do to turn the cart or manoeuver it around a sea of aisle hogging shoppers.

My kids thought this was hysterical. Which lead to silliness and bad behaviour. Suddenly I was no longer the momma with the perfect kiddies but that Redneck who came to town, scratched her ass in public and let her children run loose like monkeys.

I was rapidly losing my ability to contain the situation and made a command decision to get the hell out of Dodge. Scanning my list to see what items I could forget about, and which items I absolutely needed, I decided the only thing I couldn't live without was wieners.

Story of my life, really.

The meat section was on the other side of the store. Of course, why wouldn't it be? As my son started to imitate a bad circus juggler near the apple section, I debated on leaving them in the produce department and running by myself to get the meat.

Bad idea, I thought to myself as other shoppers were sending us their bad mojo complete with evil eyes. Corralling the kiddies and pushing our monster cart towards the other side of the store, Fric and Frac giggled loudly as the cart screamed to anyone who would listen what a pack of hillbillies the three of us were.

Finally in the meat section, Fric, my always helpful daughter, grabbed the closest pack of hotdogs to her. As she tossed it into the cart with a triumphant look, I snatched it out and tossed it back into the case.

"Honey, if I'm going to eat chicken lips and assholes for a week, I want them to be good," I proudly proclaim as I peruse the selection before me. Every shape, size and type of tubed meat lay before me, like wiener heaven.

"Mom, a hotdog is a hotdog. They're all disgusting until you put ketchup on them."

"No, sweety. You don't understand. You're mother is very particular about the wieners she puts in her mouth. I want them big and juicy."

Yes, I said it. To my ten year old child. Not realizing the double entendre I was stating. However, the matronly woman standing beside me certainly was and gasped in horror at what I had just said. Trying not to make eye contact with her death glare, I continued to focus on the wieners as though my life depended on it.

Except that was difficult to do, with the two men who stood on my other side and had also heard what I had said.

They wiggled their eyebrows at me to suggest that perhaps I might like their wiener selection.

Realizing how badly this situation could go, and that I was screwed if I turned left or right, I told the kids to back up the cart and head west...we didn't need no stinking hotdogs.

However, I snagged a package of big wieners on my way out, while staring at the floor. A girl has to feed her family, you know.

As we were loading up the car with our loot, I blushed with shame as I thought about the scene in the meat department.

"Next time I go shopping, I'm leaving the two of you locked in the closet at home," I said as I dove to save the eggs my son had almost dropped.

"But why Mom? We had so much fun?" They looked at me, all big blue eyed and innocent.

Devil spawn, I thought.

"It's just easier with out you sometimes, darlin."

"But mom, everybody knows that kids are the greatest thing in the world. And we can always help you pick out a great wiener."

Just what every mother wants to hear. I'm the luckiest mom in the world.

Fight or Flight

I'm living a mother's dream this week. My children are off at summer camp; my husband off at work. That means I am not spending my day folding laundry and listening to the angry screeches of two children argue over whether the sky is blue and I'm not spending my nights avoiding "back rubs" and listening to my husband whine over how hard (snicker) done by he is.

It's just me, my facking birds and my crippled dog.

And man am I bored. The novelty wore off somewhere around the 29th hour. I now find myself wandering around my empty house looking for something to do.

Oh look! There's a dirty sock under the bed in the back corner! Sweet! That'll kill a minute while I fish it out...

I'm so bored I even locked my sweet, surgically repaired dog into a small room with the birds. Just to hear the feathers flap.

That plan backfired horribly. I failed to take into account the fact my dog is stoned on pain meds from having his leg sliced open, cracked in half and bolted back together again. Abe and Lester flapped all around Nixon, even pecked at him a few times and my dopey dog just sat there with a stupid look on his face.

So much for drama.

So I'm doing what I promised myself I would never do. Yard work. It's either that or start running through the fields stark naked hoping for some action. With my luck someone would shoot me. I figure it's safer to keep my clothes on and pull some weeds.

So far I've blown a lawn tractor tire, lost a wratchet, cracked the pool pump (I'm in big trouble for that one), broke a lawn chair (with my healthy ass) and fucked up the whippersnipper so badly even God himself, couldn't save it.

I ought to pat myself on the back for a job well done. I am so efficient.

(In my defense, the lawn tractor is an ancient piece of shit, begging to be replaced; my husband has over a hundred wratchets so the loss of one isn't a huge deal; the pool pump...well...I have no freaking idea what happened...it wasn't me, snicker; the lawn chair was ripped to begin with (I SWEAR!!!) and the whippersnipper? Well, if my husband had fixed it properly in the first place, I never would have had to fiddle with it. So it's technically Boo's fault.)

It was right about when the whippersnipper blew up that I had to reevaluate my plan for yard work. I could continue on my path of destruction thereby endangering myself and costing my husband an arm and a leg to replace everything I touched broke, or I could go and pull some weeds.

Weeding is cheaper so I toddled down to my garden shack shed to look for some gardening tools when I heard a loud buzzing sound. In the corner of my shed was a rather large hornet's nest.

As I stood stalk still, I eyed this bomb and thought two thoughts to myself.

A.) Shit. Back up slowly, close the door and go get a beer. Don't be a hero. What's a few weeds anyways?

B.) I think I saw a full can of Raid! in my utility room. Who needs a man to kill a few bees?

Yes, I admit, I have rocks for brains. Thanks for pointing this out.

As I walked up to my house to get the can of poison, I was picturing all the accolades that would pour in when the world found out that I was mighty; I smote a few hornets without fear, without man.

With can in hand, delusions of grandeur and a crippled dog in tow, I returned to the scene of the battle field, ready for war. I carefully read the instuctions written on the side of the can, wiped the sweat from my brow (it was HOT, I wasn't nervous...sheesh) and steeled myself for combat.

As I reached up on my tippy toes and pointed the can of poison at the hive, I thought, sheesh, how easy is this? Who needs a man? I am woman, hear me ROAR!

And roaring there was...as twenty or so hornets buzzed angrily around my head, very pissed that I was messing with their crib. My crippled dog sat there looking at me like I was the dumbest yokel on the planet.







I did what any good woman would do. I ran screaming out of the shed, dropped my can of Raid!, and hi-tailed it towards the house which suddenly seemed impossibly far away.

As I slammed my door shut, and shook my head to make sure no hornets lodged in my hair, I looked out the window to see if I had a trail of angry little insects ready to swarm my abode.

No.

What I did have was my crippled, limping, broken legged pup hobbling his way towards safety, probably muttering curses and placing a pox on my head for leaving him to face the danger alone.

Ya. That's right. I abandoned my precious Nixon and fed him to a pack of wolves with wings, while I jumped ship and ran for safety. I am officially the worst doggy momma ever. As I scooped him up when he finally stumbled to the door, I noticed his nose was stung. Damn me.

I blame this on Boo. If he were around, I would have remembered to grab my baby as I fled for the hills.

I'm sure of it.