My darling hubs surprised me on Thursday night while I was flopped out on the family sofa, eating sunflower spits, drinking red wine (I have such elegant, refined tastes) and drooling in front of the telly. One moment I was watching the newest commercial for cleaning products, the next my husband’s head was leering at me, mere inches away, separated only by the panes of glass that is my window.

Needless to say, I just about crapped my pants. I had spoken to him earlier and he had made no mention of coming home. I was a little surprised. (And a little tipsy.)

Once I got over the shock of having my husband press his face up against the glass (which of course, he won’t ever clean) while making monster noises; and once he got over the shock of seeing his wife shoot sunflower seeds into a spittoon while chugging a cheap red, we had a lovely evening.

We truly are a couple resembling class and dignity at all times. We strive for it, really.

Sitting outside on our deck, he gazed adoringly (snort) upon me until my skin started to crawl.

“What the hell are you staring at? You’re freaking me out. Quit it.”

“I can’t decide what’s different about you. You look like you’ve changed somehow.” He sat there with his eyes roving up and down my body until it started to feel like I was sitting there buck naked. So I slapped him upside the head.

“Quit it. You’re just noticing the elegant demeanour I’ve taken to sporting lately.”

Snort. “Nah, I think I’m starting to notice the scent of my money magically disappearing while I’ve been gone.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked indignantly as I carefully tried to cover up my new wrist tattoo. Apparently, I wasn’t quick enough. He snaked my wrist and pointed toward my newly styled blonde locks and replied, “It means you look like my money. As in, I see you’ve spent a lot of it lately.”

“Aw honey pie, you know I only do it for you, to keep pretty so you’ll be proud to call me your wife,” I said in my most simpering voice.

Once we both stopped laughing and caught our breath, Boo informed me that he showed some of the boys up north my picture.

“Oh yeah. And were they duly impressed? Was I a hit? Are you now labelled the lucky bastard on the crew because you have such a fiiiiine wife?” I’m still snickering.

“Actually, T, two of the boys started arguing over who you resemble. One thought you looked like Mina Sorvino and the other insisted you were a mirror image of a young Cybil Sheppard.”

“Were they drunk? Or visually impaired? Sheesh. Men. They see blonde hair and that’s it. They can’t see any further. It’s why Britney Spears is so famous…” I was on a rant now.

“Ya,” Boo interupted, ” I told them they were out of their minds too. I told them they both were wrong and there is no way you look like either of those women.”

“Really? Why not? Are they too good for me? What are you trying to say there buddy?” He was starting to look a little scared, so I took a breath and asked, “Well just who DO you think I look like? After all, everyone has a doppleganger. Who do you think mine is?”

“Oh, that’s easy. I figured that one out months ago. Hands down, no question about it.” (For some reason I neglected to notice the big shit-eating grin he was now wearing. Must have been the cheap red. It momentarily dazed me.)

Waiting for him to continue, I poke him in the ribs, and ask “Well? Who is it?”

“Why, Rita MacNeil of course. After all, you have put on a bit of weight…”

Eyeing him, and wondering just how I’m going to extract my revenge for that asshat remark, he looks at me and grins. “Oh come on. You know I love you. I can’t have you getting a swelled head. Not when everything else is swelling on you at such a rapid pace.”

I hope he enjoyed my swelling. Because it was the only ahem, swelling he enjoyed that night…

You mess with the bloated chick, and you never know. She may just decide to sit on you.