The Brushes Have Left the Building
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Here's the quintessential statement for my Hubby's life. This is what its all come down to: a brush on a string. He finally took matters into his own desperate hands and chained his brush down, like the pen on the bank counter. He has spent far too many moments of his life forlornly wandering around, yelling, while no one listens, "Anybody seen a hairbrush?"

There was this time, in a moment of desperation, he bought 25 hairbrushes at once. I was sad for him when they only lasted a week.

It's called three daughters, three daughters that care more about their long, glossy locks than the state of the world. In truth, there are only two who funnel all the hairbrushes down some black, infinite hole. The youngest would still rather catch frogs and play with Polly Pockets rather than do something as wasteful as brushing hair or her teeth, for that matter.

Yesterday, as we were watching President Obama take his oath of office, surrounded by his clan of women, The Hubby muttered, "I wonder if HE can keep a brush on him."

It wasn't long after that, that the brush got taken hostage.

I know without a smidgen of a doubt, if the Hubby were Ruler of the Free World, his first duty would be unto himself. He would create a position, an aide with the official title, Holder of the Hairbrush.

I'm pretty sure that Governor Wackadoodle of Illinois has one of those aides.

And so, once again, my Hubby has learned to adapt in the Land of Women. Adapting to females is a constant survival tactic for him.

He's up for the job of being surrounded by the ladies in so many ways. He doesn't really care about sports. He loves to cook and he loves to shop for cooking things which drives me to tears, real ones, especially when you're on Hour Two of browsing the pots and pans in William Sonoma.

And he doesn't mind buying the feminine hygiene products, either.

True Story: We were in the mountains a few years back, the same mountains of the checkun-squawking grandma, and I was in dire need of some feminine product. (This was before the surgery to remove my uterus, a jig-hoppin', clap-slappin' day in my life.) He popped into the local grocery store and grabbed what I needed. He even knows the best kind to get. The cashier said to him, "Is that it?"

And he, being the funny guy that he is, said, "Yeah. I'm not even buying anything else as a cover."

The cashier stepped back and gave him an approving eye before saying, "Well now, if that ain't somethin'. I need to applaud you for that!"

And she did. Stopped in her cashier-ringing tracks and began to clap.

The cashier next to her asked, "Why you clappin?"

And the cashier giving my hubby a standing ovation, announced, "This here fella is buyin' his wife's tampons and he ain't even buyin' anything else to cover it up with."

The other cashier smiled approvingly and said, "Well now, if that ain't somethin!" And she began to applaud my tampon-buying husband, too.

There sure are some fun folks in those mountains.

He was bursting with pride when he made it out to the car. But, like the fiercely skilled pilot who landed his jet on the Hudson without even a bump, my hubby would tell you, "It's just part of the job, no applause required."

He does have his moments. There are days when he walks in the house, appraises the situation and heads straight out the back door for a glass of wine, a good stogie and the silence of the backyard.

You see, the days around here are filled with words, overflowing volumes of words. It is the girl in us. We talk about our lives, our frustrations, our hopes, our play by play description of our dreams from the night before, what we had for lunch, what we think the dog is thinking about, what one outfit of Christian Siriano's from Project Runway's was our favorite, who hurt whose feelings and why.

This is troubling to him. He's not a loquacious man.

Feelings are his biggest hurdle.

He avoids them like the plague: having them or talking about them.

He also runs out of the room at any movie with English accents. English accents and feelings are deal-breakers in his life with women.

When the third girl was still gestating and we had no idea that she was a she, we went down to the hospital for the special high-def ultrasound. The sex of the baby is the last thing they tell you, after they ensure all parts are formed and healthy.

Even though he told me all he cared about was a healthy baby, I think in reality, he was holding his breath. His last chance at someone who would appreciate the Dixie Chopper like only he does.

He fell off his stool when he told them it was a girl, still insisting that he was happy.

And I think he is, well...other than having to tie the hairbrush down.

Today's Download, A MUST: Aretha's, "I Say a Little Prayer." Many have sung this song over the years, notably Rupert Everett in a movie moment. But nobody and I mean NOBODY sings it like the Queen of Soul. It makes me happy even on my saddest days.

I dedicate it to President Obama as I say: Sir, I pray that your presidential wisdom is as magnificent as the eloquence that inhabits your speeches. I pray that you guide us to peace, a sound recovery, and to light as we struggle through this dark place in history. And NO UNIVERSAL HEALTH CARE, say it with me, NO UNIVERSAL HEALTH CARE. It's a bad thing. Ask anyone in Canada.

My Hubby also wants to keep food in his children's mouths and shoes on his Mamma's feet, (or at least the Mamma wants that.) From a woman who knows, let's stop making the insurance companies out to be the bad guys. Sure, AIG might have used a little bad judgement, with their swanky weekends, during a global financial crisis, but let's find someone else to pick on, drug pharmaceutical makers, for one, or maybe your own government, Sir, with their ridiculous waste of taxpayer's money. Do we really need to know about the mating habits of sea slugs or screwworms or dung beetles? Sounds to me like somebody in charge of government studies might just be a little on the pervy side.

Yes, I'll fess up, I've been to a few of those AIG conventions and until you've been placed upon a camel and taken for a camel ride by a guy in a snazzy Aladdin costume to kick off a fun-filled week of luxurious digs, fabulous food and gifts on your pillow every night, (just a little AIG thank you), don't be no hater. Remember Sir, America is all-inclusive. Don't forget us.

Mamma likes her shoes. I'm just sayin'.

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