My Husband Should Practice What He Preaches

My husband thinks he is better than me.

Granted, in many ways he may indeed, be superior, but I keep telling him the fact he has a tighter arse and the ability to fart on command does not make him better. After all, he never produced human life from his nether regions nor made enough milk with his breasts to feed a third world nation.

I will always default to superior by nature of having a vagina. Sorry dudes, you lose.

Boo, however, doesn't look at life like that. He is more black and white. He figures since he can rebuild an engine, balance our checkbook, torch a steak on a barbecue and pee his name in a snow bank he wins at the great game of life.

For the most part, I allow him his delusions because, well, he feeds me. If it wasn't for him, I'd be foraging for berries out in the trees out back or standing on a street corner trying to exchange my well used wares for the spoiled remains of a stale sandwich a homeless guy wouldn't eat.

Never bite the hand that puts money in your bank account while you sit at home and mock him on the internet, is my motto.

Lately Boo's ego has been puffed up so big it threatens to carry him away like the Balloon Boy's hoax. And dammit, if it isn't all my fault.

In my defense, I'm a busy lady. I have a teen, a tween and Jumby. I've got dogs, cats, fish and a random bunny that was literally dropped on my doorstep. That's a lot of mouths to feed. That's a lot of laundry to fold, pee to clean up, and bums to chauffeur around to various games and appointments. I'm a mom, dude, which qualifies me for absolutely nothing but keeps these wheels turning from the time I drag my sorry arse out of bed until the moment I fall back onto my pillow and drool my way through the night to start the process all over again.

My husband? He feeds himself. Once again, I win.

There are days when I've got so much going on that I can't be expected to keep track of the toilet paper quantities let alone change the darn roll. I had one such day earlier this spring and my husband hasn't let me forget it. It was 6:30 pm on a school night, I had just spent the day shuttling the Jumbster from one appointment to the next and picking up Fric and Frac from an after school event and I was fried. It was going to be a cereal for dinner type of night and I felt no shame over that.

The only problem, I had Fric yelling that we had no milk, and Frac yelling that we had no toilet paper. The world as my children know it, was imploding around them and Jumby was bouncing in his wheelchair demanding to be fed. Except, I had apparently forgotten to pick up the liquid food he subsists on from the drug store.

With my children threatening to mutiny I realized I had exactly 27 minutes to drive 25 minutes to the pharmacy before it closed so I could pick up Jumby's food, toilet paper for Frac and milk for Fric. So I jumped back into the vehicle I had just spent my day in and raced into town while fervently wishing I was a tad more organized. A more efficient parent (like my husband insists he is) would have remembered to take care of all this earlier in the day when they were already in town.

Efficiency is for losers. That's my motto and I'm sticking with it.

Halfway to town I noticed some flashing blue and red lights in my rear view mirror. Since mine was the only vehicle on the stretch of highway at the time, I had a strong suspicion the cop riding my bumper wanted me to pull over.

Turns out, I was right. According to the very young and attractive RCMP officer who was standing beside my vehicle, I was speeding.  Since time was running out before the store closed and left my kids starving with soiled bottoms, I did the only thing I knew how to do.

I tried to wheedle my way out of the ticket. Mr. Copper was not having any of it. He was oblivious to my very obviously pushed out boobs, he didn't care that I was running late to feed my 'medically fragile' child, nor was he interested in hearing how very apologetic I was or my promises to never do it again if he would just let me off with a warning.

Heck, I even asked him "If I told you you had a cute arse would that make a difference?" as I leaned out my window and ogled his bottom.

Apparently it didn't make a difference because I was slapped with a 150 dollar ticket and shown no mercy.

That night, I made it to the pharmacy just as they were closing up and while I may have successfully scored toilet paper and liquid nourishment, I also acquired a lecture about personal responsibility, effective organization and the dreaded neener-neener from my holier than thou husband when one of my ratfink children tattletaled to their father about my ticket.

To make matters worse, I was once again pulled over for having a wee bit of a lead foot by the county cop a few weeks later. Only this time, since this cop is a personal friend, he let me go with a warning. (I didn't even have to tell him his arse looked nice. But if you are reading this Rick, it totally did.) I haven't sped since because dammit, it's just no fun when the cops make you feel like a criminal when they catch you.

I hadn't planned on telling my husband about the second incident and lucky for me Jumby can't talk. What I hadn't planned on though, was how our friend the cop would mention this to his mother who would mention it to Boo's mother who would then mention it to Boo. (Oh the joys of living in a rural community where everyone knows everything.)

My husband, once again went on and on about personal safety and blah blah blah. I tuned out a few minutes into his lecture and started daydreaming about tropical places and shirtless men.

Ever since then, every time I have to drive somewhere my husband takes the time to remind me of my tarnished driving record and how I should be more like him, what with his unblemished perfect record.

It's not annoying at all. Okay, it totally is. I'd like to take his perfect unblemished driving record and cram it up his...well, you get the idea.

And then magic happened.

I picked up the mail last night and noticed a very official letter from the justice department of the city my husband lives in when he's not living at home with his family.

Inside that very official envelope was my sweet revenge a 'notice of offense to the registered owner'. The registered owner being my husband. You know, the one with the perfect driving record who speeds even worse than I do but keeps horseshoes up his arse and has never been caught.

Turns out my husband, the one with the lead foot, was clocked at doing 68 km/h in a 50 zone. I've got the picture to prove it. (His hair looks awfully nice from behind, just so you know.)

I was going to gloat to him about this, but then I thought, nah, I'll take the high road.

I'll blog about it instead.

Sometimes being married is a lot of fun. This is one of those moments. Heh.