Magic Moments

As most of you know, the hubs works out of town in the oil industry, sleeping in man camps (paid prison I like to call them) or hygienically-challenged motels. There are very few women where he works, and the few ladies that he does encounter tend to be more masculine and sport heavier facial hair than the average male. Suffice it to say, by the time the hubs rolls in, home is looking pretty good. There are no fat, foul men hanging about, belching and smelling up the joint. The bed is soft and the sheets are clean. If he's really lucky, I may even serve him macaroni and cheese a la wieners with freshly shaved legs.

I really know how to go all out and treat a man. We haven't stayed together this long just by sheer luck, you understand.

When Boo first arrives home, it is akin to chaos. Every one is happy to have him back. Even Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. doesn't seem to mind being punted to the end of the bed. After the excitement wears off and you can peel the kids off dad like little burrs, things start to settle into a pattern. A nice groove. The honey-do list gets brought out and we earnestly start negotiating which chores will get done in exchange for which reward. Garbage disposal for a back rub, chimney sweeping for a hummer, returning the month overdue videos for fresh baked cookies.

Turns out, we both have our limits. My chimney still needs sweeping and my hubs refused to do the walk of shame to return the movies and face the fines. But what is marriage if not a little give and take?

These were the first four consecutive days the hubs and I have spent together since Christmas time. Sure, we've seen each other in passing, but to actually BE together for 96 straight hours has been a luxury. Slightly marred by a small vomit-fest, sure, but still a luxury. He showed he loved me by feeding me soda crackers and ginger ale, all the while promising me I could make it up to him when I felt better.

Funny, I'm still queasy...

It wasn't all roses and raindrops while he was home. The man reminded me on more than one occasion that he was absolutely blessed that he was married and not sentenced to die single and alone. Take for instance, when I got out of the shower and the hubs walked into the bathroom. With an admiring glint in his eye, he looked at me and winked. I, of course, having just showered off particles of vomit, was in no mood for anything."What???" I snarled. The dumbass hubs looks at me and innocently comments on how 'that's what he likes to see. A naked woman with a little extra meat on her bones.'

WTF??? That's me, naked, shivering and apparently, fat as a hog. Just what I needed to hear at that particular moment.

I'd have taken more offense to that particular comment, however, I was in the throws of Puke-Fest 07 and had more urgent matters to consider. And it's not like my husband has maintained his boyish figure if you know what I mean. At least I've popped out three kids. Asshat.

I do believe the piece de resistance (translation:the DUMBASS Moment of the Year Award) was when Fric and Frac were doing their chores as Boo and I cuddled on the couch. Boo was growing increasingly more frustrated with their shoddy efforts at housekeeping and suddenly decides to take it upon himself to teach the kids the proper way to clean.

"You know, if I were home more, maybe they wouldn't be this way," Boo comments, as he commandeers the dust rag.

"And just WHICH way would that be?" I ask. Poor fool. He was like a deer in the headlights, too stupid to see the train coming before it flattens him.

"Well, lazy and inept. If I were home, they wouldn't be this ridiculously incompetent. They'd have me to set an example for them."

"As opposed to the example of me, sitting on my increasingly large backside, while doing nothing but watching telly and eating chips, right?" Did I mention my hubs may not be the brightest bulb in the bunch, but he is VERY pretty.

"That's not what I meant. I just meant I could do it better. I could show them the proper way to clean a house."

As opposed to the improper way I have been teaching them. Foolish me.

"Are you saying I haven't been teaching them properly?" You'd think he'd have noticed the bright DANGER!! signs flashing over my head at this moment. Not my hubs. Cute and oblivious.

"No, I know you DO your BEST. But -"

Interrupting him I say, "But my BEST is not as good as your BETTER, right?"

Let's just say it was right about then that he kissed any chance for a hummer good bye. It flew out my dirty, incompetently cleaned window right about then.

"Exactly! I knew you'd get it."

Oh, I get it. I get that while I was sitting on the couch eating ice cream, my husband and my kids were cleaning my house. As I sat and watched. And did nothing. Seems to me, my best is far better than even he realizes. After all, my house was cleaned, my children were re-educated, and my husband's ego stroked all while I sat on the couch and ate my mint-chocolate chip ice cream.

And I never even had to give a hummer to get my floors washed. Seems to me, my best is pretty damned good.

Sucka.

Cheap and Easy: A Husband's Delight

I haven't done much blogging since Wednesday morning. Truth be told, it is hard to read, write or even sit up right when your blood has been thinned the night before with some wonderfully yummy red wine. To say I have enjoyed my mommy juice these past evenings would be a small understatement. A more accurate description would be that I seemed to have fallen into a vat of grape juice and am slowly drinking my way out. With a straw. I enjoy my wine. But to be honest, (and in case the adoption people are reading) I don't like drinking when Boo is not home. I'm a fairly easy drunk. Wait, that came out wrong. Actually, it's fairly accurate. But I meant to say I have a low tolerance for alcohol and I can't handle my booze. I'm a cheap drunk.

Cheap and easy. No wonder Boo loves me so much. Hee hee.

Without a responsible adult in the house, I don't feel right about imbibing in one of my favorite pleasures. Instead, I pour cranberry juice into a goblet and imagine I'm drinking a fine merlot. The risk of having something happen to one of my kids and not being able to drive them to the hospital is not a risk I'm willing to take. And we all know that I have had to make that scary trip, alone and in the middle of the night, once before. Although, with that particular outcome, perhaps the mommy juice would have helped. Sigh.

So I have been taking advantage of my husband's layover. (Wow, so many innuendos in one little sentence.) The moment my darling Fric and Frac touch their pretty little blonde heads to the pillow, the cork has been popping around here. I am fairly certain if I were to line the empty bottles up in a row I would be very embarrassed. And the adoption people would send me a therapist instead of a child. Ahem.

But I feel justified in my love of the juice. I work hard at raising these children into sassy, obstinate, lazy, smart, curious and industrious little people. With little help from the outside world. And it isn't often that I get a chance to relax, unwind and depend on someone else for a little backup.

And let's be honest, the kidlets are so damn happy to see their dad, they have abandoned me to my kool-aid and have clung to their father like a burr on a dog. Hee hee. Not that I'm enjoying that or anything. Not at all. Who knew how easy this parenting gig could be when there are two parents under one roof? I can paint my toenails and balance a plate on my nose at the same time, because Fric and Frac have zero interest in me.

Poor Boo. Hee hee.

I know the reality is those children are thrilled their dad is home because it means they will finally get a home cooked meal, not one out of a can or a box, but I am willing to take what respite is offered. And if it is offered in the way of a nice bottle of red, who am I to turn it down? After all, everyone benefits. Mommy's happy, Daddy's happy, and the kids, well, to be honest, in my alcoholic haze I sort of forget that I have them, but I'm sure they are happy too.

Only one problem with Boo being home.

He will leave again. And the wine run will inevitably end. I'll have to put the corkscrew away, and lock the liquor cabinet. Because it's hard to operate a can opener and a microwave when buzzed.

And with my fine parenting skills, those are two tools of modern day convenience I can't live without.

Otherwise, we'd all starve around here.

It's the Thought That Counts

To some, Valentines day is a day of romance, love and chocolate. A day to cuddle with their lover and be thankful that someone is willing to look past their freaky monkey toes, hairy mole and odd habit of grinding their teeth while sleeping. To others, Valentines day is nothing but a commercial holiday forced upon us by a consumer driven society and the money-loving large corporations that drive our economy. They shun the little cupids and cute hearts and avoid the flower shops like there is a plague amongst all the pretty petals. They proselytize to all who'll listen about how every day should be Valentines day and then go home, shut the blinds and have wild animal sex with their partners while begging forgiveness for not bringing home a mushy card filled with sappy sentiment.

I'm just imagining...I wouldn't have any experience on either of side of this coin. Ahem.

So, what does Valentines day mean to me? Well, since this is my pulpit, I'll tell you. The ole V-day to me is a reminder of how NOT to behave. Yep, something about Cupid, his arrows and those damn little cardboard cards that bring out the worst in me. Always have, always will.

As far back as I can remember, I have always acted like a petulant child regarding this day of forced romance. When I was in grade three, and required to take part in the class exchange, I pouted because I didn't want to give everyone a card. I didn't like everyone. Why should I have to lie and give those cooty carrying freaks a card that says "Be mine." I didn't want them to be mine. And when I received the obligatory valentine from them, I carried it between two fingers and disposed of it as if it were covered with dog poo once I got home.

Wasn't I a charming child?

Fast forward to my teeny bopper days. Grade 7, and twelve years old. A very cute little boy named Jeff wanted to be my valentine. I liked Jeff. He was the smartest kid in the school and he wasn't a geek. When he brought a big heart shaped box of chocolates to school with the intention of asking me to be his girlfriend, all my friends gushed and sighed and told me how lucky I was. What did I do? I yelled at him for embarrassing me in front of my friends and then hid in the girls bathroom until he gave up and trudged home. From what I heard, he ended up giving the chocolates to his mom.

Jeff Litchfield, wherever you are, I'm really sorry.

Fourteen years old, and I had matured. I was ready to embrace any boy who wanted to be my man. Which is exactly what I did at the after school dance. I locked lips with a boy with braces during a slow song, while others stood around and timed us. We made it to just over two minutes. Him cutting my lips and shoving his tongue into my mouth. Me, spitting all over him.

Classy.

Then there was the time Boo gave me roses for valentines day. How nice, right? Poor kid paid a fortune for them and drove all the way into the city to give them to me, on a school night. Would have been really wonderful, except for the fact that I had called him on Feb. 10 to break up with him. For the simple reason that I didn't want to have to buy him a present. When he showed up on my doorstep I literally beat him with the roses until petals were flying and he had to seek refuge in his vehicle.

Crazy bitch.

Since we've married, we have managed to avoid any of the minefields that seem to trigger my psychotic tendencies. He buys me flowers occasionally, plies me with liquor and passes on a mushy assed card, which I normally snigger over and then whine about it not being a funny card. One I can appreciate it.

This year, I was bound and determined to right the wrongs of the past and embrace St. Valentine. I went off in search of the perfect valentine present, not only for him, but for the kids too.

When I came home and unloaded my goodies, I noticed something. I had bought a shitload of crap for me, some groceries and spent more money than I care to share on Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. He's gonna have the best Valentines day ever! But as I rummaged through the now empty bags, I realized something.

I hadn't bought a single thing for my kids or my hubs.

Wow, sometimes I even amaze myself with my thoughtfulness.

Now I am forced to return to the city to buy some sort of candy bribe for my chitlens, and beg for them to overlook my lack of parental grace, and try to find the perfect gift for Boo. Something to show how much I really love him.

Ah, screw it. Who am I kidding. I'm going to go to the damn gas station, buy a bag of skittles, tell the kids to share and to quit their damn whining. They're lucky I got them anything at all. As for Boo, well, we all know the best gift I can give him will be tonight, in the quiet hours of the night when I show him just how bendy I can be.

After all, what says "I love you" more than a flexible wife? Right?