Homewrecker

My husband’s biggest fantasies involved me awakening him with sexy underwear. Well this morning, he got his wish.

“Whose bra is this?” He heard me ask angrily as he was blinded by the nylon and straps of the brassiere I threw in his face.

“What?” he responded tossing the bra aside as if he was being stripped teased.

“I said whose bra is this?” I demanded again grabbing the brassiere he tossed aside, dangling the cups in his face like a used jockstrap.

“Yours?” He responded not sure if he was answering a trick question.

“It’s not mine because I don’t wear this size, and I don’t like this style!”

“Well, I don’t know. Maybe it’s for your mom.” He suggested as he was dozing back off dismissing me in his dreams.

I was infuriated. Even after being confronted with evidence of adultery, my husband never attempted to get out of bed to save his marriage!

“Why would my mom’s bra be in my underwear drawer… and if it is, you’re a sicko!”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you.” My husband said as he rolled over on his stomach, turning his back to me.

Realizing I was late for work, I continued getting dressed with the underwear and clothes I recognized, making a mental note to search every drawer – mine and his – for more underwear and clothes I didn’t.

During the commute, while I was consumed with thoughts of adultery, child custody, visitation and divorce, I was trying to remember when my husband would have the opportunity to defile our bed and become incensed at the nerve of the homewrecker he slept with to toss her underwear in my drawer. Was she trying to hide it in haste as he slipped her out of the back door? Or was she deliberately marking her territory confident I would leave once found? None of the scenarios were making sense as I thought we had a pretty solid marriage. I replayed my husband’s nonchalant responses in my mind. “Yours?” he responded earlier. With a 30-minute commute ahead of me, I had time to logically contemplate his answers. Why would I even wear a homely bra like that to begin with, especially a size bigger?

I knew why. I was sitting at the red light, when the light bulb went off in my mind. I wore a bigger bra while I was nursing our daughter. It looks like I may have some explaining to do.

Birthday Parties Are No Piece of Cake!

Out of bed on a Saturday morning, I grabbed my chore list planned on a not-much-happening Friday night.  Clean my car, mop my floors, run some errands.  What I hadn’t planned, but now needed to address, was learning the complicated politics of children’s birthday parties.

The sheer amount of papers my child brings home from school has my Mazda’s floorboards littered like a big city sidewalk.  While purging my car of paper, stickers and melted candies, I came across an invitation-sized envelope labeled with my daughter’s name.

“Guess who’s turning 6?” It read with enough details about where Jeremy lived, how to reach him and what he liked that I could have stolen his identity, but I still didn’t have a clue.  Jeremy –  a boy?  I wasn’t even aware that my preschool daughter even had boy – friends?

“Hi.” I introduced myself awkwardly to Jeremy’s dad on the phone as if we had just started going steady. “My daughter was invited to your son’s birthday party this afternoon.  It’s a long, messy story, but I just found about the party today…is it too late?”

“No, we’d love to have you, come join the fun!” Why did I have the feeling that his response should have been followed by a big fat NOT!

My daughter’s only 4, so my experience is minimal in planning and attending kids’ birthday parties, and because she wasn’t blessed with a fraternal twin brother, I have zero experience in picking out boy items. It seems easy enough on the surface.  If girls like princesses, shouldn’t boys like princes?  Hmm, maybe I should think this through.  Oh well, I’ll have to contemplate this later, I still have 2 more items on my list.

Three hours later and an hour before the “fun” starts, I’m studying the toys on the shelves like the names on a memorial wall.  A toy I would have deemed appropriate for a 6-year-old boy wasn’t among those listed. I still lacked peace of mind.

Thirty minutes to fun time, I grabbed what I thought was an age-appropriate gift -an educational card game with a squishy toy on top. Well, let’s just hope shopping for the gift bag is going to be easier.

It was. A dark blue tote that screamed ‘energetic big boy’ with the words “YOU ROCK!” emblazoned across.  I completed the look with black and gray tissue paper to create the smoky effect similar to when rockers appear on stage.

In the parking lot of Party Central, I started doubting my gift. I really didn’t know what Jeremy liked or what he even looked like, so I opted not to put our names on the gift tag. Besides, I reasoned, with all the other gifts he was sure to get, mine would get lost in the shuffle anyway.

“For the birthday boy!” I announced handing the bag over like a bottle of wine at a dinner party to whom I assumed was Jeremy’s dad.

“Wow! What an awesome bag!  Honey, look at this!”  Jeremy’s dad said, summoning over his wife.

“Oh wow! Jeremy’s going to love this!” Jeremy’s mom agreed placing it in front of the other gifts.

Uh-oh.  There goes my logic of the crappy gift getting lost in the shuffle. I’m going to pay more for this gift than I did in the store.

After the games, cake, and candles, it was now time for Jeremy to cover the floor with wrapping paper and empty gift bags.

Thanks to my ego-boosting YOU ROCK bag complete with the smoky effect, I lowered my head as he raised my gift up for the birthday guests to see.

“Daddy, what is it?” Jeremy said as if he had just found a rusty doodad in the backyard.

It’s a…I don’t know son.” Jeremy’s dad attempted to answer as he passed the gift to his wife.

“Well, it’s a…um…”Jeremy’s mom said looking at me, hoping I would finish her sentence. I remained silent as I realized the squishy toy on top made the gift look like a plaything fit for Fido or Spot. Now, all the parents were looking and inwardly wondering how much I paid for the gift. I actually paid $15, but it was clear that it was $14 too much.

Jeremy’s mom handed the gift back to her husband in an impromptu game of Hot Potato, who for a second almost forgot I was standing there because he looked like he wanted to throw the rusty doodad back in the far away backyard.

Jeremy, with his 6-year-old attention span, was now oohing and ahhing over the other gifts he got while his parents remained noticeably silent. No one bothered to break the ice that abruptly chilled the leased party room, so I knew that the other parents were making mental notes to themselves as well.

I hid behind a moon bouncer and pretended to be busy texting on my phone.  I’m an adult playing with imaginary friends.  When this party’s over, I’m going to need therapy.