Hubs packed a bag this morning and flew, on a genuine airplane, out of our small town and into a thriving metropolitan area that actually boasts a team in the NHL. Unfortunately, Hubs is not hanging out amidst the skyscrapers to attend a hockey game, because he’s simply there for a string of work-related meetings. If he had his choice, he’d be in the front row at the game, up against the glass right now, holding a cup filled with Coke that was basically the size of a nuclear warship and cheering his heart out, instead of attending meetings and trusting the DVR to get his game recorded in something with a little more clarity than technicolor.
And why do I announce this on the World Wide Web? I might as well shout from my rooftop, “Hey, nasty little criminals! Hubs is gone! Come over here and rob us blind!”
Actually, I’m not worried, because we have Poppy. Poppy is seven pounds worth of the most vicious domesticated short-haired cat that God ever placed on this planet. If she doesn’t want you in this house, you won’t BE in this house, rest assured. She sharpens her claws in the garage at night, she eats nails and old tin cans and small children for breakfast, she shreds the back of my brand new sofa, and she’s capable of gutting anyone who comes over without an invitation. In the dark of the night, when Hubs and I are trying to sleep, Poppy and Pip (the other domesticated short-haired resident here — the one whose marbles have never been all in the same sack at the same time) chase one another around and around, re-enacting what only Marlin Perkins and his Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom could have captured on film.
With Hubs gone for the night (Just one night, you nasty little criminals! He’ll be back tomorrow afternoon, packing those biceps that we like to call the Gun Show!), the boy and I were left with options.
Which channel would it be?
The boy asked me, “Are we going to watch Glenn Beck without Dad?”
I replied, “Do you even want to watch Glenn Beck? Shouldn’t you be more interested in animation at your age, instead of out-spoken talk shows with adult dialogue in them?”
The boy nodded. “I like Glenn Beck, Mom. I even like Glenn Beck when Dad isn’t home.”
That’s our boy. Born and raised in the Republican party. His daddy is so proud of him.
I simply shook my head and said, “Mama’s got the controls tonight.” And indeed I did. We watched Super Nanny, y’all, and if that doesn’t make you grateful (just! plum! grateful!) for the behavior issues that you’re dealing with, and that you don’t have the kids featured on the show eating Eggo waffles on a daily basis at your house, I don’t know what will. I can’t say that reality shows featuring nannies are in our usual line-up list of what we watch at our house, so the boy had his eyes opened tonight.
“Do kids really act like that, Mom?”
Yes. Yes, they do.
And immediately after Super Nanny, we went right into an hour-long viewing of Clean House. This little hour of televised programming gave us something to work with, as I stated (probably more than once), “Do you see what your bedroom will look like if you don’t clean it? Do you want your room to look like that man’s house?!”
I was thrilled to hear the boy state, “Holy cow! How do they live in that mess?”
My thoughts, exactly. My obsession with Clorox always makes me wonder how anyone can live in some of those houses, where you must walk across mounds and mounds of trash just to cross the living room. At one point, I looked at the boy and said, “You know, you’d never get a girlfriend, if your house looked like that.”
Without missing a beat, the boy replied, “Good. I don’t want a girlfriend. Ever.”
That’s what I like to hear. We may have picked out our wife already, and I may agree to the wedding, when I’ve fully decorated my room in the local nursing home, but we don’t have to go the girlfriend route. Ever.
And after the heaping Hefty bags that I hauled out of the boy’s room yesterday during my determination to gut and clean it, I’m not sure we even have to worry about the wife any longer.