Friday, June 22, 2012


Sometimes it’s a little difficult being the only female in the house.

The dog? She doesn’t really count. Sure, she has the cute factor going for her. But she’d turn traitor in a heartbeat for a peanut butter sandwich or a belly rub, so she’s hardly worthy for inclusion on Team Girl Power.

Which means I often find myself adrift in a world full of testosterone and armpit farts.


Yeah, me.


I’m not sure what was worse.

My husband’s trepidation of his upcoming dental visit. Or finding our insurance card for his appointment.

“Where is it?” he asked even though he already knew the answer.

And I knew that he knew. Girl. Power.

I smirked, pointing to my bag over on the kitchen counter, and said, “It’s in my purse.”

Four words to put the fear of God into my husband.

Predictably, he shook his head vigorously and muttered, “Nuh-uh. Not going in there.” He reached over, grabbed the handles on the bag and dumped it unceremoniously in my lap.

I rolled my eyes.

Seriously. What is it with guys and purses and the absolute terror that grips their bodies at the very thought of going near one?

It’s like they think we’re hauling around radioactive waste.

Or - EGADS - feminine hygiene products.

(You really don’t get a lot of “egads” these days, but I digress.)

I opened the bag, pointed to my wallet and said, “There it is. Go fetch.”

He jerked back like he’d just realized my purse was nestled among a basket full of spitting cobras.

“Oh, you big baby!” I hollered and reached inside. I pulled out the card and flipped it in his direction. “I think you’d rather have a root canal before sticking a hand in my purse.”

“Darn right,” he answered before tearing out of the room.

Ugh. Men.

Can’t live with ‘em.

Can’t rule the world without ‘em.


“Mom,” our just-turned-7-year-old son quipped from the back seat of the car one day, “what was I wearing when I was born?”

Perplexed at the question, I looked across at my husband and silently mouthed, “What did he just say?”

His only answer was a slight shrug, which in sign language stood for, “I’ve absolutely no usual.”

I turned in my seat to look at my mother, who sat next to the royal heir, then at our son and answered, “You weren’t wearing anything.”

His eyes got THIS BIG and he screeched in horror, “What?! Are you telling me everyone saw my naked body?!”

OK. He didn’t actually used the words “naked body.”

Instead, he used a euphemism along the lines of something a squirrel stores up for the winter.

Which really makes this little story a lot funnier, but, you know, we don’t want to cross a line here.


Moving along....

By this time I notice the car has drifted, and the tires are making that “thrump, thrump,” sound as they tear over the rumble strip on the shoulder of the highway.

Because my husband is no longer in control of his faculties and has lost the ability to safely drive the vehicle.

Instead, he’s having a coronary, trying not to laugh out loud in reaction to his son’s words, if his shaking shoulders and red face are any indication.

And that wasn’t anything compared to my son’s grandmother’s reaction as she comprehended his use of the word, uh, “nuts.”

Trying to keep a straight face wasn’t an option here. I’d have better luck trying to hit a target on the moon with a Nerf gun.

Instead, I chuckled and assured our little guy, “Don’t worry, kiddo. Nobody looked.”

He nodded his acceptance and blissfully let the subject drop.

Bless his heart, he actually believed me.

He’s gonna grow up and make some wife very happy. Sure, he’ll be too scared to go near her purse.

But that’s OK. At least we won’t need to worry about a future career as a streaker. As a mom, sometimes that’s all you can ask for. 

No comments:

Post a Comment