Apparently, I Need a Hobby

The phone started ringing this morning before I had a chance to pour myself a cup of coffee. I always take that as a bad sign. It means either school is cancelled and God is laughing at me or I forgot to pay the credit card and now the stalkers bankers are looking to break my kneecaps to collect what is owed them.

Either way, an early morning phone call is not something I look forward to. Even if it does give me an excuse to use my throaty, sexy, husky voice first thing in the morning.

Luckily for me, it was my husband, calling to see how my night of getting farted on by Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. went.

Bring, Bring

"Hello?" I answered cautiously, not recognizing the number and fearful a pack of crowbar wielding bankers stood outside my front door waiting to bust my kneecaps.

"Hey love, how's my doll face doing this morning?" Boo purred while the sounds of heavy machinery whirred in the background.

"I'd be better if I had a cup of coffee in my system and you didn't make me run to answer the phone first thing in the morning," I griped.

"Where are the kids? They could have answered it."

"They're getting ready for school. I think your daughter is blow-drying her hair, trying to get purdee for the boys and I don't want to know what your son is doing in the shower by himself. But he's been in there an awfully long time." Yawn.

"That's disgusting," Boo groaned.

"Here I thought you'd be proud your little boy is turning into a man," I snickered.

"Very funny. So what plans do you have for today?" he inquired.

"Trying to keep me on a short leash with a tight reign are you?" I asked in between gulps of coffee.

"No, I'm saving that for the bedroom, when I get home," he purred.

"You're a pig."

"Thank you. You love it. You married me."

"Only because I was knocked up and have rocks for brains."

"My wounded ego," he sighed and then barked some orders to some lackeys in the background in what sounded like Swahili to me.

"Well, I was thinking of vacuuming, changing the bed sheets and then getting on all fours and washing the floors with a scrub brush."

"Look at you being all Miss Molly Homemaker. Now what are you really planning on doing?" Damn, he's onto me. We've been married too freaking long. There is no pulling the wool over his beady little eyes.

"Probably just write on my blog and then troll the internets for entertainment until my ass grows numb and my eyes start to cross," I answered truthfully.

"You really need a hobby other than blogging."

"Well, I was thinking about going shopping. I'm thinking about buying some new houseplants."

"I meant, a hobby other than spending money," he countered.

"Oh. Then I guess it's back to blogging the day away," I said as I drained the last drops of my java from the cup.

"You could go to the gym you know. Get healthy. Build up your stamina for when I get home next week," he offered. I could tell he was proud of himself for this suggestion. Arse.

"Ya. I could do that. But then my ass wouldn't jiggle as much and to be honest, the jiggling keeps me company during the day. Makes me feel so not alone."

"Very funny."

"How's those manboobs of yours doing?" I countered. Nothing like turning the tables on him.

"They're filling out just fine, thank you. Listen, I've gotta go. Tell the kids I love them. Have a good day spending my money, love."

"Thank you. Have a good day earning me some more money to spend. Internet service isn't cheap out here, you know."

Sigh. "Ya. Thanks for reminding me. Love ya." And with that, he was gone and I was left to plan my day.

I love being a kept woman.

Now blogging or shopping? What's a girl to do?





Need I remind you Boo, you have been complicit in feeding my addiction. Or have you forgotten Christmas?





Ignore the bedhead and my husband's robe. I generally wake up looking like a supermodel. Really. I just didn't want to make any one feel bad about it...

What Happens When A Big Man Becomes A Big Baby

Was it really wrong of me to laugh at my big, strong husband when he came screeching out of my bedroom like a little school girl and stopped in front of me, demanding I to go clean up the mess my dog made while chewing a bone on the bed?

Was it really wrong to bowl over laughing when he got indignant when I told him to clean it up himself and he said he couldn't because it was "EWWIIEEE."

Was it really wrong of me to be snorting with laughter as I walked away (to ignore his request), mocking my large, manly, macho husband for his use of such a pansy ass word and his obvious disgust with what turned out to be just an itty bitty bit of dog drool and wet bone chunks on his pillow?

Since when did I become his maid, existing just to serve his every whimpy request? (Isn't that why we had kids?)

I mean, really, who wears the pants around here?

Want Some Class with that?

It's a sad day in the universe when my husband thinks he's the classy partner in our union. This from the man who pees on the driveway the moment he gets out of the car. This from the man who buys his beer in bulk, only concerned with price and alcohol content and not trivial things like oh, say, taste. As long as it's cheap and has a higher alcohol level than a fermented potato, he's a happy man.

The other day, he joked about how classy he was and if it wasn't for me, well, he'd be married to Ivanka Trump. I'm pulling him down, apparently, what with my breeding and my social status.

"What the hell does that mean?" I asked, amused and somewhat disbelieving, as I was picking the underwear out of my ass. (I couldn't help it. It kept crawling up and giving me a wedgie. It's not like I did it in the aisles of Walmart with hundreds of people to witness my butt-picking. I was discreet. I waited until we were in the parking lot.)

"It's nothing personal, love. I'm just saying that people who know us think I'm the classier of the two. By marrying me, you've been elevated. You know, in social standing."

Snort. "Ya. Because you are sooo classy. A farmer's son from butt-fack nowhere, whose idea of fun is mutton busting and hog tying livestock. Yer so classy," I sneered. "I'm the one from the city. I'm the one with the useless, underused and overpriced education. I make art for a living. I use my words. I'm an artiste. You stand around and pick the nits off monkeys all day long. Real classy," I snickered as I tugged at my nose ring.

"Ya, cuz you're blog is so sophisticated," he retorted. "Real artsy. Sayeth the Redneck Mommy."

"Very funny. You know I was being ironic. Oh wait. You probably don't know what that means, you hillbilly. Do you need me to educate you?"





I'm rubber and you're glue. Anything you say bounces off me and sticks to you...

We argued a little more about whose heritage was more upscale, whose father was more attractive (definitely mine) and whose job has more value. Certainly mine. Sure, Boo rakes in the dough while I hoard the pennies my writing actually earns, but writing has an intellectual value which enlightens and elevates society.

Even mine, I argue.

This is not the first time someone has dared called my blog less than sophisticated. Upon my uncloaking and going public, I mass emailed my family, friends, neighbours, the creepy guy down the road, the local inmates at the nearest prison and told every homeless person I saw about my blog.

Invariably, I was setting myself up for some disappointment. Cuz I'm a dumbass that way.

Eventually, word filtered down to me about what my loved ones (and not so loved ones) thought about this itty bitty blog. A relative of Boo's informed him that "she could see how OTHER people thought she was a good writer, but this isn't her cup of tea."

Not all of it was bad. Some people actually reported liking my posts. Others, like the psych dude the adoption people sicked on us, thought I would be better served if I left the blogging world all together.

I take it all with a grain of salt. (Poured deeply into my gaping, wounded soul.) As in life, not everybody appreciates you. Even if you do their homework for them and buy lunch for them everyday, they still will label you a nobody. (Not that I know anything about that...snicker.)

Not everybody likes good ole Britney Spears' music either, and look at her. Oblivious to her haters, and living the high life with her frappes and panty-free ways.

(Perhaps not the finest example I could think of to illustrate my point...)

But to have my own husband knock my blog, my writing...well, them's fighting words.

"Are you saying that you think I should stop blogging?" I asked, while rubbing off the red lipstick that was smeared across my teeth.

"No, no. You know I love your blog. I wouldn't dream of having you get a real job. Far be it from me to keep you from surfing the net at your leisure. Or encourage you to actually earn a living."

"This is why I love you. You're so supportive," I crooned as we drove to visit Boo's friends.

Joking aside, this crass, classless blog has done the better part of keeping me sane in my darkest hours. And it has served as a useful marital aide and communication prop from time to time. Nothing like a little passive aggressive sarcasm to whip the hubs into shape.

We continued to tease one another as we walked into the office where his friends were.

"Oh, good, T. I'm glad you're here," one of Boo's friends said. "I was just reading the paper this morning and they are looking for writers. To tell stories. I thought of you."

How nice of this matronly woman who has befriended us, I thought. See? I'm contributing to society. I'm bringing a bit of joy into this woman's dreary life, I thought to myself.

"I'm determined to get you to use that talent for good, not evil," she continued. "I'll get you writing something classy, yet."

Pop shot through my nose and burned my eyes as I snorted over her comment. Visions of her hiding in the back seat of our car, eavesdropping, flashed before my eyes.

I looked at Boo as I wiped my face; he was doubled over, killing himself laughing and he shot me a look of innocence. If I hadn't been cracking the whip this last four days, I would have thought he set me up for this.

"That's very nice of you, but I enjoy writing my blog," I politely responded. Classy like.

"Oh, that's too bad, dearie." Yes, she actually called me dearie. "Well, one day, when you're ready, I'm sure you will put your talent to better use. You're too classy to be writing about boob rings and orgasms."

"You hear that Boo? She thinks I'm classy." I shot to Boo as our concerned friend went to look for the newspaper advertising for writers to contribute classy stories.

"Ya. Real classy. Now, are you gonna pick that spinach out of your teeth, or shall I?" he asked as our friend came back waving the newspaper.

I'll show you all, I thought to myself, as I looked in the mirror to pick my teeth. I'm gonna get real sophisticated on my blog. Right as soon as I buy some damn underwear that quits crawling up my ass.