Golden Goodies Dance Before Me

It can be really tough being alone with my kids for 24 days straight without any parental help from Boo. Hell, it can be really tough being alone without a husband, period. I miss having a manly shoulder to lean on and prop me up.

There is no sex. No cuddling. No one manly arms to take the trash to the dump. No manly words of loved whispered to try entice me into the sack. No manly arms to cook us supper and keep us from starving to death.

Did I mention, the sex part? Somehow the humming of my favorite battery powered buddy is just not as thrilling as well, flesh and blood.

It's a wonder the kids and I have survived Boo's long absences.

Yet, Boo and I make it work for the most part. While he's off chasing the almighty dollar, earning cash for standing around and picking his ass, I guard the home fires and try to keep the embers burning brightly for his return. He's entrusted me with his kids, his castle and his bank account and all I have to do is talk to him once or twice a day while he's absent to make sure I haven't run off with the water man. Or the gas man. Or the mail man.

It's not such a tough gig. Especially since I'm not dealing with our marital dip. And I'm not having any good sex. I should be well rested at the very least, being alone all the time.

So I go through the motions, waiting for his return, and for him to call so I can hear the warm, deep sound of his voice. Reminding myself, the entire time, he will be home soon and leaving his dirty clothes in a pile and generally driving me bat-shit crazy.

When the phone rings, every one scrambles to reach it first. Pillows and couch cushions fly in our haste to be the first to answer, the first to be able to speak with our elusive man.

The telephone is what is keeping our relationships with the missing man in action alive and healthy, reminding us that life will one day resume normally when the big guy returns.

After a particularly difficult night last night with the kids and a rough sleep entailing a lot of tossing and turning and shoving my dog's arse out of my face, the phone rang this morning.

"Hello?" I answered, hoping it was Boo and not some telemarketer since once again my call display seemed to be in the crapper.

"Morning Sweet Cheeks, how did you sleep?" Boo asked.

"Not worth a nickel. Damn dog had gas and stunk worse than you normally do."

"You love it. My manly aroma, that is."

"Ya, it's my favorite thing," I replied while struggling to keep a straight face and not roll my eyes. "How was work?"

"Same ole, same ole. What do you have planned for today, love?"

"Well, I'm downloading some music as we speak and then I'm going to shake my thang. Maybe later go see about buying some clothes for our vacation. I'm trying to find a shiny gold banana hammock for you to sport. Preferably one with a thong."

Visions of my husband's ass cheeks jiggling on a tropical beach dance before my eyes.

"Ya. I'm not thinking so," he replied somewhat dryly. "Maybe you should just shop for yourself and let me worry about my own clothes."

"Where's the fun in that? Don't be such a puss. We're going to be on vacation. You are supposed to let it all hang out." Snicker.

"Speaking of letting it all hang out, have you been to the gym lately?" I could hear him unwrap a candy bar in my ear. Bastard.

"Are you implying something?" I asked in my most snotty wife voice.

"No, no. Just wondering," he hurriedly added with his mouth full of chocolately goodness that I am trying to avoid in an attempt to actually fit into a swim suit. "You said you were going to buy a new swim suit. Did you get a bikini?" he asked, somewhat hopefully and completely pathetically.

"Um, that would be a negative, my friend." Like duh.

"Why not? We're going to be on vacation. You are supposed to let it all hang out," he parroted back to me. Damn him.

"Because a bikini would show off my mummy tummy. The jelly belly in a bikini is not a pretty sight, not even for the foreigners I would be abusing by wearing one. I'd never be able to sit without rolls of flesh winking at me and mocking my self-esteem."

"Don't you worry about sitting. You'll be laying down most of the time any way, he he," he snickered.

"Very funny. What about when we are in public and I need to eat?" I argued.

"You mean you plan on eating something other than my manly sausage?"

"Stop it. You're grossing me out and I just got up."

"Well, you don't look half bad as long as you stand. Think of the calories you'll burn eating that way."

"Remind me why I love you, again?"

"Cuz I'm your babies daddy. I'm your bread and butter. I complete you."

"You just called me fat, you ass." I felt the need to point this out. Like it wasn't obvious.

"I'm just keeping it real. I'm helping motivate you. Trying to get you moving, like you asked me to."

"You know, I'm suddenly feeling really good about myself. Maybe I'll go bury my face in a pail of icecream and then crack a few beers. Watch some soaps and eat that stack of halloween candy I bought for the kids. Really round myself out. Fill out that mythical bikini."

"Sounds good to me. Just make sure you're not sitting next to me when we get there. That roll of flesh may swallow me whole," he snorted.

"I'm hanging up now, dick head." I threatened.

"I love you too. You should groove your way to the gym so that bikini and -"

"I can't hear you!" I yelled into the phone. "Bad connection. I think I'm losing you. Love you," I called as I pressed the disconnect button.

Yes, our phone conversations help keep the magic of our marriage alive.

I think I'll let the kids answer the next call. I'm gonna be busy eating ice cream and searching the web for an itty bitty man bikini to shove his package into. Let's see how sexy Mr. Confident feels when he learns the only trunks I packed for him are of the shiney gold thong variety.

I may have to strategically hide my mummy tummy, but at least I'm not going to have to stuff any part of my suit to look sexy.

***Update:***

Apparently, in a bout of insomnia, the hubs decided to check my blog instead of sleeping like he is supposed to be doing this afternoon. He doesn't think I've got the cojones to buy him a thong. He's issued a challenge, in his sleep-deprived state. He SWEARS he will wear a thong if I agree to go topless one afternoon on some tropical beach.

You silly man. You silly, lovable, sleepy man.

I accept your challenge. (After all, didn't the psych assessment say I have exhibitionist tendencies?)

Not only will I go topless (while extremely intoxicated I hope) and let the boob rings glint in the sun for an hour or so just to see your sweet hairy ass cheeks shimmer like the white, cantaloupe globes they are, but I'm gonna take a picture.

And I'm gonna send it out to our family and friends as our Christmas card.

You've made your bed bet.

It's public now, my sweets. Better buy a razor and practice shaving those sweet cheeks and while you're at it, you might want to find a stair master to boot.

Don't mess with the Redneck. I always win.

Smooches, love.

I may even post the pic, for all to ridicule and snigger enjoy.

Let's see who gets the laugh laugh now, eh Boo?

The Life And Death Of Dave

Dear Dave,

You're sudden death took me by surprise. Fear and a bit of bile rose up in my throat when I came upon you, curled up in pain and obviously half dead. My first instinct was to step on you put you out of your misery but my darling children insist you pass on in a natural fashion. So instead of smacking you to death with a broom helping you along, I sat on Death Watch, peering intensely at your chest, waiting for the rise and fall to finally stop.

(Really, that wasn't the sounds of happiness you heard when you finally bit the dust. It was my death whoop, so overwhelmed was I with your passing.)

You were a good mouse friend. Fric and Frac loved you dearly. I'll admit, I thought you were cute, with your big ears, long tail and fabulous white fur. I'm sorry you were only two months old, but in the life of a mouse, surely that is middle aged.

You were courageous right from the start. You nibbled on your big brother's tail with impunity and stood your ground in the rodent ball when your neighbours, the Hamsters, tried to invade your turf.

How I'll miss your leaping ways. From the moment I first opened the box the pet store clerk stuffed you in, and you sprung out at me as though you were wearing invisible springs for foot wear, I was freaked right the fuck out charmed with your Mexican Jumping Bean impersonations.

I'm sorry I complained about the aroma you emanated on a daily basis. I realize now it was the stink of love. Frac's room just doesn't seem the same with out the lovely mixture of rotten apples hidden under his bed, sweaty socks and mouse shit love. I promise you Dave, I'll never forget that scent.

I know your passing was unexpected. You thought you had many more months, years even, to run that little rodent wheel, spin in that ball or climb the seemingly endless and ridiculously overpriced array of tunnels I was forced to purchase when my Darling Sister In Law imposed thoughtfully delivered you to us.

You will be missed by all. Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. will miss sniffing your ass and drooling as he watched you run around in the ball, bumping into walls. He will surely miss you Dave, and the hope you gave him that one day you would run free and provide him with a delicious, freshly served snack.

You deserved a better burial than me threatening to flush you down the toilet insisting on a modest affair. Frac lobbied hard for you, insisting that we box you up, drive you to Bug's cemetary and bury you next to his brother. Forgive me, for not planting you in consecrated ground, mere inches away from my son's head. Forgive me for not wanting to tarnish the sacred soil of our family burial ground with the rotting remains of a rodent.

I am not completely hardhearted, dear Dave. I saw the tears in my children's eyes and felt them spring up in my own (I assure you, they were not tears of joy, oh sweet joy.) After all, I did find you a box to plant you in, instead of the ziploc baggie I threatened to stuff you into. That must count for something.

And I did bundle up and head outside with my devastated children, cussing and moaning the entire time to find you a suitable resting place. I only vetoed the flower bed because I thought your remains might be dug up in the spring. Really, I was respecting you, even if the kids just thought I only cared about my flower gardens.

Did I not stand in silence as my son dug your shallow, sure to be found by the nearest feline grave? Did I not offer to say a prayer over your fluffy white, dead body? Does it really matter that once you were buried and the kids were walking into the house I jumped up and down on your grave? As I imagined the crunching of your bones, I swear I was only packing the dirt, securing your grave site.

Dear Dave, you were a good friend mouse to us all. You will be sadly missed, I assure you.

At least until I go to the pet store and fork out $2.99 for the next one.

Sincerely,





Dave. Or at least, an artistic rendering of what was once a mouse named Dave.

I'm A Talented Gal

While riding the high of the adoption approval, I tried something I rarely ever attempt. I cooked, two times in the same week. Without relying on cereal, eggs or boxed noodles. Without ordering pizza or wrangling an invite to my friend's house. I was being motherly. I was being domestic. I was feeling very pleased with myself. Look at me, rocking this mothering thing, I thought to myself.

Then my kids came home from school and killed my buzz.

"What is that smell" Fric asked with her button nose all wrinkled and a look of distaste spread across her freckled face.

"Supper."

"Why does it smell so bad?" She stares at the pan in horror. "Frac! Come and check this out," she called.

"Jeez, you two. You'd think you'd never seen me cook before," I whined as I wiped a bead of sweat from my brow. This Molly Homemaker crap was a tough gig. I'm not like my sister in law, Ms. Martha Freaking Stewart, gifted with the ability to feed five mouths with whatever crumbs she finds in her pantry and still make it taste good.

I've got two mouths to fill and I still can't manage to shove a parsnip down their throats without listening to them gag and retch.

Frac elbows his way between Fric and myself and peers down at the stove. He pokes the sizzling contents of the pan and sneers, "What is that Mom?"

Sigh. Why can't they just trust that I'd never intentionally poison them?

"All right you two, scoot. It doesn't smell that bad. It's chicken stir fry. I may have burned the chicken a tad, but it's mostly edible. Don't worry about it. The smell is from when I spilled some of the sauce onto the stove and it sorta smoked a lot and stunk up the house, but it's not gonna affect how anything tastes."

I hope.

"I'm not really hungry, Mom," Fric mentions as she casually saunters to the fridge and roots for an apple.

"Then drop that apple. You're eating supper. And you're gonna like it." I warned. I had enough of these turkeys and their complaining this week. First the fight with the stew on Monday, which was actually edible (a small miracle around these parts) and now this. Where was the warmth and love a mother deserves for lovingly feeding her family?

"Why can't we have pizza?" Frac whined.

"Because I've already made stir fry."

"But it's burnt. And it smells." He countered.

"It's not burnt. It's artfully blackened and it doesn't smell. The stove smells." I shot back.

"You know, this is child abuse. I'm going to tell the adoption people about this." He threatened as his sister nodded her head in agreement and had his back.

"Bwhahahaha. Too late my friends. You had your chance. You blew it by telling them how much you love your dad and me. And being a bad cook is not the same as abusing a child. Nice try though." To be honest, the stir fry did look a little sad. Sadly black and now a tad wilted.

"Shoot," Fric replied under her breath. "Well, it may not be child abuse but it's not fair that we have to eat this. I could do better," she whined.

Touche. But then a one armed monkey with a glass eye and a flatulence problem could do better than me so that's not really setting the bar all that high.

"Why can't you just go get a real job like other moms and bring home takeout?"

"I do have a real job!!!" I reply rather indignantly. "Being a stay at home parent is one of the hardest, most unappreciated and undervalued jobs a person can hold. You two ought to count your blessings; when I was your age I only wished my mother would stay at home and not work."

"That's because Gramma is a good cook!" Fric retorted.

Damn. They had me there.

Peering down at the sizzling pan, I sighed. It did smell gross. And I did just force them to eat turnips and parsnips the other night. I could feel my parental resolve slipping.

"Tell you what, if it tastes bad, we won't eat it," I said as I reached for a fork to taste test the mess.

Their eyes followed the fork to my mouth as if their lives depended on it. You could feel the tension in the air.

Slowly, I tasted the questionable stirfry. The taste of charred chicken and some other bizarre flavours made their way to my senses and caused my eyes to start to water. I forced myself to smile and nod at the kids as I swallowed the swill.

Shuddering, I acquiesce. "All right, you win. It's gross." They could have at least hid their knowing smiles and cheered behind my back. Buggers.

As I flipped through the phone book to see what type of take out I could find in backwoods Alberta, my daughter kissed my forehead and said "It's okay Mom. You don't have to be good at everything. You're still a good mom."

Aw, my little precious. How I love you too.

"Ya," Frac agreed. "There is more to being a mom than just feeding us. You're really good at other things too."

"Oh ya? Like what?" I asked. I was kinda curious now.

"Well, you're really good at doing laundry. That's important," Fric earnestly replied.

Great. I'll go down as the world's greatest launderer. Just the epitaph I was hoping for.

"You scream the loudest when you find a bug or a mouse. I've never heard anyone scream louder," Frac proudly added. "And you taught us not to be scared to pick up the dead things you find. I'm not scared of touching dead birds!"

Wow. That is skillz, people. I scream really loud and force my kids to dispose of diseased carcasses that I, myself, am too much of a pansy to touch.

It takes a special type of person to master those talents. A screaming, phobic, poisonous cook who can separate the whites from the darks like no other.

I'm one step closer to winning the elusive Mother of the Year award and then onto global domination.

Look for me. I'll be the one screaming loudly, wearing a freshly laundered shirt.