It is amazing how the quiet dripping of the coffee maker can seem so loud when a person is hung over. Also amazing is how quickly a person tosses back a few alcoholic beverages with little thought to the consequences of her actions.

Like how early her children would rise. And want pancakes for breakfast. Or how her head would feel like it will burst like a cheap balloon at the slightest noise louder than the sigh of a baby fly. Or, better yet, how her brother- in-law would phone first thing in the morning and she would find herself, along with her hubby, pushing his dilapidated van out of the bog hole he drove it into while trying to bury the family dog that had died, in our north pasture. (Picture me, bleary eyed and cranky, cussing a blue streak while being yelled at by both men, to push harder. Like I was in labour or something. Bastards.)

Yep, dear internet, those drinks were certainly worth it. Because (besides all evidence to prove otherwise) this Mommy had a great time last night shaking her booty with her girlfriends.

So it is with great pleasure that I pass onto you, yet another cheesy pun.

Now I’m off to shower to get rid of the damn mud that splattered all over me and find me some aspirin….

Two painters, one an old man and the other a youngster, were painting a very large home. It was getting late in the day when they reached the second floor.

There ahead of them was a very long corridor. The older painter said, “I’ve had enough for one day. I quit. How about you?”

With that, the younger painter headed toward the corridor and said, “Not me. I’m in this for the long hall.”

As parents, we all want the very best for our children. We want them to love, be loved, to succeed, and ultimately, to be happy. I like to think that Boo and I are doing alright. We don’t beat our kids (I prefer useless threats i.e. if you don’t do the dishes I’m not going to feed you for a week. How do you like them apples?) We take time to foster a rapport with them. (Generally by having conversations about which boy or girl they like, while hoping fervently that when they say “date” they mean holding hands or tugging pigtails.) We spend quality time with our kids. (Granted, it may be in front of the boob tube, but they do cuddle with me on the couch. That’s gotta count, right?)

Boo and I want to give our kids the all the opportunities that we didn’t have the luxury of when we grew up. That means soccer games, skating lessons, basketball, and swimming. We allow them to pick a sport a season, so that I may have the privilege of sitting (and usually shivering), watching and enjoying my offspring develop.

I know I am a good mother. I don’t need anyone to tell me. I know this just by seeing the love reflected in my children’s eyes. I know this because, quite simply, they haven’t been carted off to the funny farm or locked behind steel bars. (Yet. I know they’re still young.)

So why is it, when Fric’s teacher, Mr. H, phoned last night and left a message saying he had to speak to me regarding my son, terror struck deep in my soul. Like I had been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. Revealed to be the lousy parent I secretly fear others think I may be. And when he said the issue was of some sensitivity, why is it my mind raced to every bad scenario possible? Was he a bully? Was he a crybaby? Was he hiding school schematics and downloading pictures of automatic rifles?

Suddenly, it was like I was fourteen again, and I was in the principles office awaiting punishment for organizing a protest rally that resulted in vandalism. (There’s a post for another time.) What could I, as his mother possibly have done?

Turns out, nothing. This one is on his father’s head.

It seems my boy is somewhat of a Casanova. A ladies man. And he’s into inappropriate displays of public affection. Damn him, for trying to kiss the cute ten year old girls on the playground. My own little Romeo.

His father is soooo proud.

My darling Boo has been gone for more than two months. I have seen him twice in that time. It’s been a long, dry spell, for this Mommy, if you catch my meaning. Wink, Wink. Really, to all you wives of soldiers or really, to any wife whose husband is gone for extended absences, I applaud you. Because this ain’t easy. Besides the fact that I’m missing my husband, I am the sole parent. My kids see this, acknowledge this, then go to their bedrooms and have a powwow to discuss the many ways they can slowly drive their mother into a drooling, rocking shell of a human. They’re like little hyenas, circling their prey, laughing all the while.

My darling Boo, says I can handle it. That, dear internet, is because the bastard doesn’t have to deal with his offspring. If I have to listen to any more arguments over who didn’t flush the damn toilet, who stole my pencil crayon (heaven forbid they need that exact one, when there are literally hundreds more) or whose turn it is to wash the dishes, I’m gonna go kamikaze on their asses. Just so you know.

Then there are my inlaws. I love these people dearly. Really, I do. (My mantra, I’ll just keep repeating it.) But why should I have to deal with my darling’s mother if he won’t? Why do I have to explain, over and over again when Boo will be home. Phone them your damn self, dear husband.

But alas, I know I do all this, because I’m a sucker I love him. And it is this passionate love that I have for him that drove me to a moment of insanity. I thought I was being cute, I thought I was being a good wife.

What did I do? Why, thanks for asking, dear internet. I actually posed naked for pictures to my goon.

Not Hustler pics, no,no. I wouldn’t want to scare the poor man. Or make him cry. No, these were tasteful nudies. Black and whites, taken with all the skill and patience I have acquired as my years of a journalist.

Read: A lot of fucking swearing and cursing, repositioning so a tit doesn’t hang out, and the kids knocking at the bedroom door, wondering what’s going on to make mommy so angry.

Hours later, and every single muscle in my body limp with exhaustion, I had the final product. So I sent the package up North with cookies, and a love letter and eagerly awaited his response. All the while, feeling immensely proud of myself. I had gotten past my low self esteem and did something nice for my hubby. Something tasteful that I could be proud of.

My darling hubs got his package. He ate his cookies. He carried on. No response. Days later, I asked him if he received anything special.

He chuckled, and then said thanks. Oh, and the cookies were good, he replied.

The fucking cookies?? Slowly, I exhaled, and bite my tongue. I asked him if he liked the pics. (Bastard’s already in the dog house. He looses points for making me ask about the damn photos.)

He chuckles again, says they were NICE. Oh, yeah, and thanks. Could I send him any more of those cookies?

As the steam is pouring out of my ears, I asked him what he thought of the photos where I twisted and contorted my naked body for hours so that I could give him beautiful, tasteful pictures of me for him to enjoy.

“Oh, you looked real pretty in all of them. But I couldn’t see anything good.”

“That’s why they are tasteful Boo. You get a hint of what is there, and you are supposed to use your imagination.” I reply.

“Well, it would have been easier if you just gave me a money shot.”

And that dear internet, is the romance I share with my husband.

And just so you know, I didn’t take the money shot. I sent him a Hustler mag instead. Pervert.