Remember back in the days when you were younger and there was a book or album or pair of acid washed jeans that you just had to have and your parents refused to buy for you? You would argue with them and then flop down on the couch in a state of despair and ask God why? Why did you saddle me with such loser parents who just can’t understand that life will end as you know it if you don’t get said item. You will be thrown into the pits of hell as you become the social pariah amongst all of your friends who all own (because their parents were not losers like yours) what ever item you coveted?

Ya, those were the days.

I had to have a pair of sixty dollar acid wash jeans that made me look like a skinny punk. I thought the world would end if I didn’t get them. I remember the joy of finally saving enough money to walk into that store, purchase those jeans and then strut into class looking like a flat chested, stringy haired geek who was wearing a pair of acid washed jeans the coolest pants in the whole world.

I may have been a geek to everyone else, but that day I felt like the coolest person in the whole class, except for maybe that girl in back who teased her hair really high and wore bright green eye liner. She was REALLY cool.

Lately, those acid washed jeans have morphed into something else. Something more expensive. Something slightly more useful. Something more like this:

I’m not picky, really. I don’t care what make or model it is. I just want a big shiny truck that can run over large animals and keep on going so that I can get wood in the winter and have a vehicle to take my garbage to the dump. I am tired of shoving bags of smelly garbage into the back of my lovely family car, a beautiful 2006 Vibe named Stella.

My husband points out the small fact that we’ve survived for this long with out a truck and we could technically survive forever with out one. That’s because he’s not the one shoving bags of smelly ass waste into his car and then having to hang his head out the window like a facking dog just to breath enough stank-free oxygen to get the garbage to the transfer station and not lose consciousness.

Boo also doesn’t want another vehicle payment on his hands. I get that. I’m a responsible adult. But I’m still allowed to dream. And whine. And needle him incessantly about how if he really loved me, he’d buy me a truck.

(I don’t believe in fighting fair. Heh.)

So when he was home this weekend and he was acting all weird, going to the washroom to make calls on his cell phone, trying to act coy and innocent, I knew something was up. It was confirmed when my sister magically appeared and ‘needed Boo to look at her car.’ But he couldn’t look at her car at our place, where all of his TOOLS are, no, he had to go with her to an unknown place to do this car looking.

A more suspicious gal might be inclined to think there was something rotten in Denver with that scenario. However, I am not a suspicious type of lady. I chose to believe that there would be some vehicle looking going on.

Some truck looking. Heh heh.

I was positively giddy. I was soooo excited. I kept imagining how sparkly and shiny my new truck would be, and what type of pretty name I would christen her with. I even went out to my car and lovingly told Stella that there would always be room in my heart for her, even if I didn’t drive her quite as often.

I phoned my best friend up and gloated to her about what an awesome husband I have. How he makes all my wishes come true. I did a happy dance in my kitchen as my birds and my dog looked at me and wondered what I was smoking.

I kept pacing by the window, watching for my husband to drive up with a fancy truck. Would it be red, or black or silver, I wondered. Suddenly, I could hear the sounds of a truck engine from just beyond the trees. I raced to the window to see my new toy and just about had a freaking heart attack.

Oh ya. I have a truck to call my own now. But you’ll only see me drive it with a pillow case tossed over my head to disguise my true identity.

I raced outside to ask my husband what the fack he was thinking. This was WRONG. On so many levels.

“What the hell, Boo? What is this?” I half whined, half cried.

“It’s sweet eh? And it’s all yours,” he said as he kissed my forehead, obviously mistaking my horror for excitement.

“It’s so ugly!!! And old!!!”

“Well, it’s got some years on it, but it’s not miled out and that rust, it’s just surface rust. Don’t you worry. This here pretty lady runs smooth as a knife cutting through warm butter. I’ve had her inspected and she’s almost as good as the day she was made,” he purred as he caressed her shiny red dashboard.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Then I had a flash of brilliance. “What about our hundred dollar rule? This had to cost more than a hundred bucks. Not much more, but still!” Heh heh. Anything to get rid of this atrocity.

“Well, it was wayyy cheaper than the bedroom furniture you bought behind my back.” Oh shit. Right. The furniture. Damn. There goes that idea. “Don’t you worry. I got a great deal from one of the guys on my crew. He owed me so we made a deal. It was a freaking steal!”

“More like we don’t have to worry about anyone stealing this hunk of junk.” My visions of a shiny new truck were now hitchhiking down the road looking for a new person to partner up with. I tried to swallow my disappointment and look a little happy, just because Boo was so obviously proud of himself.

After a few minutes of showing me the truck’s merits, he told me to hop in and give her a whirl. I was overcome with fear and panic. First off, someone might see me in this piece of shit. Secondly, it looked like it was about to fall apart.

Swallowing the acid taste of fear in my mouth, I climbed in as Boo slid over to the passenger seat. I looked at him and asked for the keys. He handed me a key ring for three keys.

“What are all these keys for?” I stupidly asked.

“Well, one is for the ignition, one is for the door and one is for your tool box in the back.”

Looking over my shoulder I noticed the dented and scratched tool box behind the cab. “Great. Cuz I have so many facking tools,” I muttered.

“Do I have to push in the clutch to start the engine?” I inquired innocently as my hands started to shake slightly.

“Oh no, honey. This is a 1984 model. They didn’t have safety features like that back in those days. Just be careful not to pop the clutch or you’ll lurch forward and smash into what’s in front of you.”

Great. No safety features. I guess I’m lucky there are facking seat belts in the bucket of rust that is now my own.

I learned about low, and bull low and double gas tanks and all sorts of neat things as we tooled around the neighbourhood.

Boo was so thrilled that he was able to get me an ‘acreage truck.’ “It doesn’t have to be pretty to be handy,” he kept repeating in hopes I would start believing his doctrine.

Fat chance.

Next thing I knew, Boo was driving down the driveway in his shiny car, heading back off to work and leaving me with my very own rusted out Tonka Truck to call my own.

There are just no words for how much I love my husband.

Or my ‘NEW‘ truck.

I have a dream.

Oh wait. I’m not Dr. King.

I had a dream. And it wasn’t a pleasant dream. This isn’t particularly unusual for me. I tend to have nightmares regularly since my son flew the coop. But last night’s dream was worse. It was so vivid and clear. I woke up disoriented and sweaty and I had trouble separating my dream from reality.

That’ll teach me to watch American Idol and munch on garlic sausage right before going to bed.

In my dream, my husband was out of town and went bar hopping with his best friend. They do this every now and then. This doesn’t bother me, for several reasons. First off, most of the women working up north tend to be more manly than my husband and waaaay hairier. Secondly, most women up there tend not to have all their teeth.

Boo always said he married me for my pearly whites. He’s not fond of the toothless look. All though, I often tease him about toothless women giving good gummers. What more could a man want?

Heh heh.

I trust my husband. I’ve spent many years instilling a deep and abiding fear of what would happen if he ever strayed from our marital vows. He’s apparently attached to his man parts and would like to keep them attached. If you get my meaning.

I also trust his best friend. He’s a good guy. And he knows if he ever encouraged Boo to stray or act inappropriately while away from his family I would think nothing of ripping off his limbs, beating him with them and them cramming them down his throat.

Funny how a guy over six feet tall, solid muscle and intelligent kinda whimpers and flinches when ever I make any sudden moves around him. Pansy ass.

But in my dream, Boo was out trolling for chicks. He was unaware that I was there, stalking his arse watching his every move. I watched him drink beer from a long neck bottle and watched his adam’s apple bob up and down.

I watched as his friend twirled a short, stumpy broad in a pink sweater with humongous boobs across the floor.

I watched everything.

And then I woke up in a sweaty panic.

Because I was unable to elbow Boo in the ribs to get him to wake up and comfort me while I bury my nose in the rug of fur he sports on his chest, I did the next best thing.

I called him. It only took six tries before he finally heard the ringing of his cell phone in his sleep and groggily answered the phone.

“What? What’sa matter? It’s three in the morning for crying out loud,” he half groaned, half growled.

“I had a bad dream,” I whispered.

“Are the kids are okay?” he asked while stifling a huge yawn.

“I have no idea. A plague of rabid frogs could be gnawing at their toes right now and I couldn’t bring myself to care. You’re not listening. I. Had. A. Bad. Dream.” I repeated.

“You always have bad dreams. Tell Bug to leave you alone and go back to bed. I have to get up in two hours,” he complained.

“It wasn’t about Bug. My dream was about you.” The hazy fog of my nightmare still clung to me and tugged at my soul.

“I’m alright. Nothing bad is going to happen to me,” he assured me. At this point he would have said anything to get me the hell off the phone so he could go back to sleep.

“No, no. That’s not what my dream was about. You were at the bar with your buddy-”

He interrupted me and said, “I didn’t go out last night. And even if I do go out, you know I’m just keeping my buddy on a leash and trying to keep him out of trouble.”

“I know. Quit interrupting. That’s not why I had a nightmare.” I was getting annoyed now.

“Then spit it out for pete’s sake woman. Some of us have to WORK in the morning.” He was getting feisty.

“I dreamt I was spying on you at a bar and you were trying to hit on two women.” The dream was coming back in full force now. I shuddered and nuzzled my dog to make it go away.

“I’m not going to hit on any woman. Let alone two of them. I can barely keep up with you. Why bring more into the mix?” He reassured me.

“No, no. That’s not what upset me. What upset me was just how lousy you were at trying to hit on them. You were like the creepy guy at the bar who just couldn’t take no for an answer. The chicks you were hitting on were obviously lesbians and yet you wouldn’t leave them alone. I was so embarrassed for you.”

“Nice, Tanis. Well, don’t worry about it, I’m not hitting on any women, let alone a pair of lesbian lovers.”

“I KNOW that. But in my dream all of a sudden everyone turned around and looked at me and started to point and laugh at what a clumsy loser my husband is. It was mortifying. You were such a geek.” I squeezed my eyes shut to erase the mental image of my husband leering like a pubescent teenager at two women. I kept seeing him following them around like a puppy dog while everyone in the bar mocked him behind his back and looked at me like I was a loser for marrying him.

“Gee, thanks. You’re twisted and I’m tired. Quit dreaming about lesbians unless you and them are naked and I’m involved. I’m going back to bed,” he yawned.

“Fine. But if you go out this week, don’t forget to tuck in your shirt, wear clean pants and try not to drool. I will not be married to the loser at the bar. Try and at least pretend you’re cool. And if a woman-”

“Good night, T. I love you too,” he interrupted.

“-If a woman shoots you down, take it like a man. Don’t start to cry like someone kicked your puppy.” I rushed to add.

“What did I do to deserve you?” Boo asked before hanging up.

I don’t know, honey. But I’m glad you found me.

Heh heh.

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?