There are many reasons my husband bows down to worship at the altar of his wife loves me. I’m a smart lady who happens to be rather bendy. Men like that.

I can also make pie from scratch, any type of jam and a salsa that will burn the taste buds right off your tongue while your eyes water with gratitude. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. One look at Boo’s expanding waistline demonstrates this truth.

I can operate a sewing machine without stitching my fingers to the fabric, wield a chainsaw with out lopping off a limb and change the brake pads of a vehicle without worrying about my tires falling off. On top off all this, I still have all of my own teeth.

I am practically the perfect wife. There isn’t much I can’t do. (Disclaimer: That said, there is a lot I REFUSE to do. Like taking out the trash or picking up puppy poop. Just for the record.)

However, for all my stellar qualities, I may have one or two small, insignificant design flaws. My very own Achilles heel if you will.

But rather than focus on my flaws I like to celebrate them. So what if I’m an accident-prone klutz with all the grace of a three-legged blind elephant? Well that just makes me unique!

And if I can’t remember where I put the car keys or my passport, it just means I’m using my brain for other more important things such as memorizing the elements of the periodic table and studying the works of Goethe and Plato.

(Or, um, more likely reading pop culture web sites and composing odes as to why the world would be better off with less Spencer Pratt on television.)

So what if I’m a little absent-minded. I’m sure Einstein had his moments as well. Just because I have been known to forget to diaper a child who has no bowel control or I have lost my 23rd bankcard doesn’t make me a lesser person. It just makes me soul crushingly annoying and maddening to live with interesting.

I keep reminding my husband that despite my many various flaws, I am a catch. He could do much worse. I mean, there are far hairier woman in the world than I am. Right?

Boo, however, remains unmoved by this argument when he has to chop the lock off of our rural post box because I’ve lost yet another set of keys to gain access to our mail. Or when I’ve forgotten to pay his cell phone bill despite numerous and repeated pleasant reminders to do so.

He gets a little testy when I tell him I need another driver’s license because I lost my wallet after placing it on my lap in the car, getting out of the vehicle and having it fall unnoticed on the ground only to mysteriously disappear upon my return to said vehicle.

He no longer chuckles when he finds the cordless phone beside the milk inside our refrigerator and he certainly isn’t amused when I misplace my spectacles and wander around in a blind panic, hysterical and unseeing because I can’t remember where I took them off.

Which is why I’m not telling him I forgot the kids eye examination appointment last month. I’ll never hear the end of it.

You see Boo has a mind like a steel trap. He never forgets anything, has almost perfect recall of events and actually uses his original bankcard until the magnetic strip wears off and the bank needs to send him a new one. (That’s just showing off in my opinion.)

The man even remembers to put the toilet seat down for crying out loud. Talk about annoyingly thoughtful.

It’s like Commander Data married a bubble-headed blonde. Except Boo is less waxy green than Data ever was.

So the other night when Boo was tearing the house apart, I wasn’t really concerned. I figured he was looking for the remote, which I must have invariably misplaced. For the umpteenth time. Except I noticed the remote was right where it was supposed to be. Curious, I watched Boo storm about and mutter under his breath for a few minutes before asking just what the hell he was doing.

“Boo? Just what the hell are you doing?” I asked as the couch cushions went flying. 

“I’m looking for something,” he snarled before stomping off to the laundry room.

“I figured that much out, dough head. I meant, just what have I lost this time that you need?” Like duh.

No answer, but I could hear the dinging of the dryer door being flung open and suddenly clothes were sailing out and landing on the kitchen floor. Curiouser and curiouser. Maybe he was looking for that shiny gold man-thong I bought him as a stocking stuffer once upon a time.

“Can I help you look?” I managed to say this with only a trace of a smirk in my voice.

“No.” 

“Well, can you at least tell me what you are looking for? Maybe I know where it is.” Because while I can’t remember the p.i.n. number to my bankcard but you know, I will always remember where I hide the batteries for my <s>battery operated buddy</s> flashlights.

Boo looked up from sifting through the pockets of pants he was emptying and I could tell he was weighing whether or not to confide in me. Realizing I’m like a bitch with a bone, he gave in and quietly muttered something.

“What? I didn’t understand you. Speak up. Remember? I’m half-deaf.”

Boo sighed like a teenage girl trying to explain the cool factor of the Jonas Brothers to her decidedly unhip parents and very quickly repeated, “Ilostmyweddingring.”

Holy shit batman! My husband lost something! Trying to hide my gleeful smirk, I told him I didn’t hear him. Again. In reality, I totally heard him and was just enjoying the irony of the turn of events.

“I. LOST. MY. WEDDING. RING.” With that he sheepishly avoided eye contact and wished the ground would swallow him whole, I’m sure. 

 My husband never takes off his ring. He’d rather chop off his finger. He says a wedding ring is chick-bait. Truth is, he just knows I’d rip off his limbs and beat him with them if he ever dared removing it.

I couldn’t say anything. It’s hard to speak when you are doubled over laughing. When I finally caught my breath, I asked him when the last time he remembered seeing it.

“I took it off when I was changing the tractor’s oil. I remember putting it in my pocket and now I can’t find it.” 

He looked up at me and caught me smiling.

“Shut up, Tanis. It isn’t funny.” Poor sport.

“I can’t help it. It is kinda funny. You never lose anything! And you are insufferably conceited when I manage to misplace something. I’m just reveling in the moment. Give me a second and I’ll revert to back to my sympathetic self in a second.”

Rolling his eyes he wandered to the bathroom to eye the sink’s drain. I, of course, followed him while mocking him the entire time. I’m helpful like that.

“You know Boo, of all the things I’ve lost, I’ve never lost anything as important as our wedding rings. I mean, that’s big. You don’t just lose a wedding ring.”

I could tell he was getting a little annoyed with me. Too bad. This was my moment and I wasn’t going to let him suck the fun out of it for me.

“A wedding ring is so much worse to lose than a car key or a debit card. It’s even worse than losing an entire purse!”

“You know what this makes you, don’t you Boo? A LOSER. Get it?” I gloated.

“Shut up Tanis.”

“Does this mean I have to buy you another? I think you should have to pony up for the replacement ring. Why should I have to cough up the dough to buy you another ring when you were so irresponsible as to lose it in the first place?” Never mind the fact that Boo has more than once coughed up the funds for lost glasses, books, keys, licenses, remotes, shoes…etc.

I could see my words were wearing on him like nails on a chalkboard. Good. Heh.

“You are enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

“Why yes, I am. I feel like I’m finally on the moral high ground over here and I’m taking the time to plant my flag and sing to the heavens.” I was crowing. Just a little. But it felt soooo good.

He may have rolled his eyes. I couldn’t tell because the tears of laughter were blurring my vision.

“Moral high ground! I don’t freaking think so, Ms. I’ll-lose-anything-if-it’s-not-chained-around-your-neck. You aren’t exactly in a place to judge me. Or have you forgotten that you just lost your automatic car start remote with all your keys on it less than a week ago?”

Picky, picky.

“Oh please. We had two sets. And a set of car keys and a clicker isn’t even on the same playing field as losing a wedding ring. The symbol of our love. The bond of eternity worn on a finger.” I waggled my fingers at him and let loose with my piece de resistance, “I have never lost MY wedding rings. I am no LOSER in that department.”

Picking up a pillow from our bed, he whipped it at my head. 

“That’s because you never wear the damn things!” he countered as he continued to hunt.

Damn. I hate when dude has a point. 

Just then Boo opened my jewellery drawer and spied his golden wedding band.

“AHA! I knew I couldn’t have lost it!” he grinned as he slipped it back on.

Turning to me he smiled. “Guess I have never lost my wedding ring either. And since I don’t lose anything, ever, I’ll just take that flag of yours and replace it with my own on that there patch of moral high ground you were standing on.”

Just as he was passing by me to go resume his life as the man who never loses anything, he stopped and planted a kiss on my forehead.

“Loser,” he whispered and then giggled his way to the kitchen.

Damn it. I may just have the hide the darn thing when he is not looking so I can get back on that moral high ground I was enjoying so much.

After all, all is fair in love and war. And this loser needs all the help she can get.

When I married Boo, I made sure that no where in our vows were the words “obey.” Why set myself up for failure?

I’m just not the type of girl who does very well at obeying. I’m not obedient. If that was a marital requirement of Boo’s, he’d be better off getting a dog.

I’m no man’s bitch. I’m an independent bitch.

That said, I try very hard to respect my husband’s wishes, even when I don’t agree with them. The man supports my arse and keeps me in Cheetos and boxed wine as I sit on my duff all day and surf the internet. I know better than to bite the hand that feeds me.

I like being a kept woman, and I love my sugar-daddy. 

Yet there are times when my husband lays down the law, puts his foot down and absolutely refuses to consider a request I’ve made. It happens so infrequently that I always blink with surprise when he revolts. The last time he refused a request of mine was a few years ago and it may have involved public intoxication and the possibility of bailing my ass out of the clink.

He is wise beyond his years.

However, this time, he had his head up his butt. He was being unreasonable. Stubborn for the sake of being difficult. Digging his heels in and ignoring the wishes and wants of every member of his family for his own personal motives.

I did the only thing I could think of. I over-rode his decision; blatantly disregarded his dictatorial commands and did what I wanted to for the sake of our family.

I brought home a new puppy.

Boo was pissed.

Meet Thatcher, Nixon’s running mate.

My children are over the moon and Nixon, the World’s Greatest Dog, EVER, is still smiling. Of course, it helps that the new dog will be half his size, is dumber than a stump and has female parts. The perfect doggy girlfriend for my sweet Nixon.

My motives were completely selfish pure. Nixon looked lonely, my birdies had kicked the bucket and I am still waiting for an adoption to happen that is beginning to look as though it may be a pipe dream. My heart was over-flowing with love and I needed someone to slather that love all over.

Nixon may have been a tad over-excited.

A puppy was the perfect solution.

Not according to my husband. Who, for days has refused to acknowledge my sweet little mongrel’s existence. He even threatened divorce and at one point thundered that it was him or the dog. He quickly backed down when I tossed a suitcase at his feet and told him to start packing.

Like me, she is no man’s bitch.

In a moment of quiet, after I just finished buttering him up (read: gave him a treat, wink, wink,) I asked Boo what the big deal with another puppy was. Why he was so resistant to the sweet intoxication of puppy kisses and big brown eyes?

“I don’t need another damn dog in my bed. One ass-licker is more than enough.”

Thatcher, Boo’s butt-licker in training.

Well, if that’s all he was worried about, problem solved. My new little pup can just sleep with the kids.

Once he realized there would be no other farting, snoring, shedding little fur monsters fighting with him for the chance to sleep next to me, he calmed down. Enough that I even caught him petting my new pup and talking cute little puppy talk as he scratched her belly.

(Who’s da sweetest liddle puppy wog in da whole wide world? Thatcher, dat’s wight my widdle pwe-shush…)

Oh my sugar-daddy likes to talk tough. But when push comes to shove, he’s all bark and no bite.

That said, I’m gonna take this as a hint that now isn’t the time to artfully slip him the ole pinky finger in the throes of passion. If you know what I mean.

Wink, wink.

How do you not love a dog who sleeps on your shoulder?

I wanted to be a doctor when I was growing up. I had big dreams of setting up shop in the middle of nowhere, delivering babies at the crack of dawn and being paid for my services with live chickens and smoked hams.

I watched a lot of Little House on the Prairie growing up.

It didn’t take long for me to change my tune and adjust my dreams when I realized just how much time and hard work it would take to become a doctor of medicine, a saver of lives. At 17, the last thing I wanted to do was commit to another eight to ten years of schooling when I could easily buy a lap top and write internet porn to support myself.

(I’m totally kidding. Or at least I am if my MIL is reading this.)

One of the deciding factors in me not going to medical school was discovering how squeamish I was. While my own blood didn’t bother me, anybody else’s body fluids did. Immensely and disproportionately. I couldn’t…can’t handle the sight of anybody’s wet and sticky substances leave their body.

It creeps me right out.

Which just made the fact that I gave birth to a handicapped child who liked to share is copious amounts of body fluid with me even more ironic.

I sucked up my distaste for blood, saliva, vomit, snot and what ever else leaked from Bug on an alarming frequency because I had to. Someone had to be the grownup in our relationship and my birth certificate demanded it be me.

I rose to the occasion and did what had to be done because he was my child and because quite simply, his life depended on it.

Yet, I’ve also been known to hide in the bathroom with my eyes tightly shut and humming “lalalalalala” as Fric and Frac come in to have a gaping wound fixed. “Go see your father! He’s magical. He’ll make it all better!”

Ya. My parental skills rocks.

Thankfully, there hasn’t been many emergencies that would test my squeamish boundaries in all the time I have been a parent.

This doesn’t mean I don’t live in fear of said moments. Or that my children and my husband don’t lie in wait to pull a prank on the pansy living in their midst.

Because there is nothing funnier than watching me turn sheet white, while running from the room saying “Don’t show me, I don’t want to see your blood!” as I go hide in a dark corner and berate myself for my weakness as my loved ones slowly bleed to death in my imagination.

Totally funny. Asshats.

Last night was one such prank. After spending a lovely romantic evening with my darling Boo, where he massaged my feet as we watched season one of Heroes, we decided to take our romance to a more private venue (behind our locked bedroom door) and do what married couples like to do when alone in the dark with a big bed at their disposal.

(I had forgotten how novel bedtime could be when one isn’t simply crawling under the sheets alone with a fat hairy dog to fart in one’s face for company.)

After a bout of nightly romance, Boo padded off to his bathroom while I luxuriated under our sheets, waiting for his return. I was half asleep when I felt the mattress shift as he slid into bed next to me.

“Tanis?” he whispered as his hand lightly rubbed my shoulder.

“Go away Boo. You already got lucky once tonight. Leave me alone,” I complained as I shrugged his hand off me.

“Once is never enough,” he purred in my ear as I slapped at his hand.

“Go to sleep and leave me alone,” I groaned and buried my head into my pillow.

“I need you to feel something for me,” he whispered.

“Boo, I’m not feeling anything for you. Go to bed,” I commanded, getting more and more irritated with him with each second that ticked past. Sheesh. I mean I just got all bendy for that man. Didn’t that earn me a free pass to sleep?

“Tanis. I’m serious. When I went to the bathroom I noticed a growth by my leg,” he whispered worriedly.

That got my attention as visions of tumors danced before my eyes.

“What?” I half-whispered, half-shouted.

“Give me your hand, I need you to feel it and tell me if I should be worried,” he said as he tried to grab my hand.

“No freaking way! I’m not touching it! Why didn’t you say something earlier! Turn the light on so I can see!” I panicked while keeping my hands firmly at my side and away from his disgusting tumor.

“Just give me your hand so you can feel it. I don’t know what to do!” he worried.

“I’m not touching it! Gross! I’ll make a doctor’s appointment for you first thing in the morning and the doctor can touch it,” I offered.

“Just give me your hand. I’m worried,” he said as he trapped my hand with one of his freakishly large mitts.

Squirming, I squealed “Don’t make me touch it!!!” as he lowered my hand to the medical mystery under the sheets.

I just about passed out from the fear of feeling some disgusting large lump threatening to take my beloved’s life when suddenly my hand landed on his growth. Funny, the growth felt like a penis, I thought, as I suddenly realized where he was going with all this growth talk.

He chuckled and crowed, “Ya. I went to the bathroom and discovered this growth by my leg. It won’t go away.”

Snatching my hand away from his love rod, I smacked him and told him just how funny I didn’t think he was.

“You freaked me out! Don’t mess with my head like that! You know I don’t do well with stuff like that!” I whined.

Boo snuggled in closer to me and smiled. “Aw baby, don’t be mad. It’s just a testament to how fine you are that my manhood won’t lie down and go to sleep with you next to me.”

Said as he slapped his willy against my thigh, in the most romantic gesture ever.

“You’re giving me a tumor,” he giggled.

Only fair since he not only gave me a heart attack two seconds earlier, but was now inducing a massive headache due to sleep deprivation and annoyance.

I love my husband. Really.

“My love for you keeps growing,” he snorted.

But sometimes a girl can go with out a tumor smacked upside her ass. Call me crazy but I think I can officially say the romance is dead.

“Come on baby, rub my lamp. The genie wants to come out of the bottle and play,” he continued.

Good thing the humor between us is still er, growing.