The Queen B

Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up And Go Shopping

You know that dream we all have of our husbands saying, "Honey? Why don't we go to the mall and go shopping for a few hours?"

Yeah. Well. It has now been taken out of the dream column and placed directly into the nightmare column.

Let me explain.

While mini-vacationing this weekend, we took a little jaunt to the outdoor mall. The outdoor mall that is anchored by a Bass Pro Shop. Which should have raised a little warning flag.

It was really a lovely day to be outside. Sunny with a breeze blowing. Music playing.

And little kiosks every 10 feet. Selling things. Geared toward men.

I need to give a brief history of The King's shopping habits.

He's tight and cheap. The End.

Soon after we arrived, I ran into a store for a second and planned to meet him at a nearby bench.

He was beaming and couldn't wait to show me his purchase.

The ShamWow.

The infomercial thing. The towel that holds 21 times its weight in liquid.

I gave him a skeptical look.

But wait!! He got 2 ShamWows for the low, low price of $19.99.

And as I looked around, I noticed that 7 out of 10 men walking around at the mall had the ShamWow.

Suckers.

So we continued walking through the mall. And I ran into another store. He thought he might just wait outside.

Guess what he was hooked up to when I came out?

The Mini Masseuse.

The infomercial thing.

His shoulders were involuntarily raising in a jerking motion every 3 seconds.

I did manage to drag him from the kiosk. I felt that electrocuting yourself 30 minutes a day to get great abs seemed a little weird.

So we made it to the Bass Pro Shop. And he found a pair of work boots.

Let me describe shoe shopping with The King.

He spends a minimum of 45 minutes. He tries them on. He walks around in them. He takes them off. He tries them back on. He walks some more. He decides they cost too much money. He puts them back. He walks away. He then questions whether or not he should have put them back. He goes back and tries them on again.

Repeat any number of times.

After his 3rd trip around the store in his plaid shorts and boots, I took the box to the counter and told the lady to ring them up.

She said, "Is he ok?"

Um, no.

The boots were purchased. The King felt unsure of whether or not it was a good purchase.

It was. If for no other reason than it stopped the madness.

We then went to Joe's Crab Shack for supper.

Now might be a good time to mention that I have a shellfish allergy.

I avoid all shellfish.

But apparently the fish fillets did not.

Because my tongue got all tingly and my tummy got all yucky.

And I spent the rest of the evening in and out of the girls' room.

After a particular trip, I noticed The King had an extra bag.

The Mini Masseuse.

We are now the proud owners of a home electrocution device.

Thankfully, the mall has a closing time.

And The King only goes shopping once every 5 years.

It's Not Easy Being Green

The King drives at least 300 miles each day. In a truck that gets, according to his calculations, 16 1/2 miles per gallon. At $3.50 per gallon. Which is a lot of coin. Over $318 each week. A LOT OF COIN.

He has decided to consider trading for a more fuel efficient vehicle.

Which is a good thing since my lifestyle is currently being affected by the fuel costs.

And I don't really care for that.

So.

We spent...oh, I don't know...THE ENTIRE WEEKEND looking at vehicles.

Except for when we were on the internet researching the vehicles.

Actually, I misspoke. The correct sentence should read: When I was on the internet researching the vehicles.

I became so engrossed in getting our money out of the gas tank and back in Queen B's bank that I did not sleep one second on Saturday night. Not a wink. Not an iota.

The 4 Diet Mountain Dews that I drank while watching all of the Indiana Jones' movies in preparation for the new one while simultaneously watching Junior get ripped off in the NASCAR race might've had a little something to do with it, too.

But I'd rather blame the gas prices.

So here's where we are in our search for better fuel economy:

Stuck.

I am not exaggerating at all when I tell you that The King and his dad spent 4 hours yesterday afternoon working the numbers to determine the savings from 16 1/2 miles per gallon to 27 miles per gallon. And every mile per gallon in between.

Every once in awhile just for fun I'd say, "Yeah, but what about the torque?"

Because it would get them going on a whole new set of numbers.

And I don't know what torque is.

But his mom and I would go into the kitchen and fall out laughing.

They worked on those numbers until they finally had the golden ticket: the cost per mile per gallon.

They used the harvest of my researching bounty to then do a comparison of the 5 vehicles under consideration.

WHICH ENDED UP IN AN EXCEL SPREADSHEET.

So now we can prove that we are stuck.

And that we may or may not be nerdy.

The King has finally narrowed his choices to either the Subaru Forrester or the Hyundai Santa Fe.

Because it is hard to find an SUV under $25,000 that has 4 wheel drive and gets at least 25 miles per gallon and has 60 cubic feet of haul space with leather seats and satellite radio plus a good resale history and safety ratings with the ability to endure 300,000 miles of Arkansas Baja and oh could you throw in a navigation system while giving me a good trade in on my beater truck with 230,000 miles a few dents and a cracked windshield.

So, please. I beg of you my internet friends, if you have any positive or negative comments about either of these vehicles or have another suggestion of a vehicle that might fall into his very particular parameters...SHARE THEM.

The Great Betrayal: Part 2

I quite possibly might have hit a nerve.

Trust me. The Queen of Non Confrontation was not making a statement regarding the ownership of motorcycles.

The Queen of Non Confrontation was making a statement regarding the silliness of her King.

That's it. Nothing more.

I don't really do political statements.

I do hair and stuff.

And.

It is not the motorcycle itself that causes my concern.

Nor is it the rider.

It is the cell phone talking, texting, make up applying, dealing with the child driver that concerns me.

Into which category I could fall on any given morning.

And so.

The King did finally admit that he was a teensy bit nutty regarding the purchase of his bike.

(Which he paid for out of his "rat hole" and his weekly stipend. Not The Princess' college fund.)

But I digress.

Back to the Part 2.

You might remember that my dad, The Princess and I met The King in Dallas this past weekend. We all arrived at the hotel at about the same time.

The King was in our room on his Crackberry, so I dashed over to my dad's room.

I was hoping he had snacks or something.

Since he had no snacks and was on his Crackberry, I was forced to entertain myself by staring out the window. I stared at my car. And then I stared at the parking space next to my car.

And I saw a hat very similar to The King's sitting on the dash of the random vehicle next to mine.

And something in my head made a ping.

Look what The King was driving...

After a mad dash back across the hotel hall and some shrieking and questioning, I discovered that The King had traded his motorcycle for a used jeep.

Very used. With a smell sort of like pee.

But completely fun!

For all 3 of us!

With airbags!

Yea King!

And Lisa kindly pointed out that with the top down, the pee smell should decrease significantly.

I am quite thankful that The King's foray into motorcycle riding did not have a tragic ending. And I am happy that we learned the importance of never making a ridiculously large purchase without the consultation of the spouse.

Apparently it wasn't completely clear prior to the motorcycle purchase.

Though it does appear he went a little bit rogue on the trading in thing--I am telling myself he just wanted it to be a surprise.

We were discussing what we've learned from this event and The King said something rather profound.

I know!

He said that wanting the motorcycle was more fun than having the motorcycle.

Let that one sink in for a minute.

Pretty good for a King, don't you think?

But then I started rolling it around in my head.

He said the wanting is better than the getting.

Girls. No less than 50 inappropriate responses are going through my head.

Must. Be. Silent.

Whew. I am glad that whole motorcycle thing is now over. Who brought that up anyway?

Tomorrow I'll stay with something safe like the pros and cons of homeschooling or the war in Iraq.

The Great Betrayal: Part 1

I've never been able to share The King's betrayal with you.

It is too painful.

Emotions have been raw.

It has been 2 years...yet it feels like yesterday.

From the moment The King and I professed our eternal love, we had an agreement.

There is one thing in which I requested he never take part.

One. Thing.

No Motorcycle.

Now that doesn't seem like too much to ask, does it?

He can have other toys.

Just no motorcycle.

I have never asked him to stay home from Man Camp.

I have never complained when he worked late.

For days on end.

I have never asked him to ditch a golf trip.

He goes skiing with the guys every year.

I encourage the racing of fast cars.

Hunting?

Fine. Have at it.

Four wheeling?

Done. Have a great time.

Just no motorcycle.

The line in our wedding vows about "in sickness and in health unless the health situation is the direct or indirect result of a motorcycle incident" seemed pretty transparent.

Unambiguous, wouldn't you say?

A little over 2 years ago, The King's dad purchased a motorcycle.

The King wasn't totally forthcoming about it. I kind of had to drag it out of him after I overheard a conversation about his dad's bike.

Once he confessed, we rehashed the law.

A few weeks later, The King and his dad were scheduled to go to Dallas to work. The King was having to spend a lot of time in Dallas during that time.

Before he left for this particular trip, he seemed a little distracted.

I felt certain that he was just sad to be leaving The Princess and me.

From our house to Dallas is about a 5 hour drive.

About 2 hours into the trip, I gave him a call to be sure he was traveling well and to tell him how much we were going to miss him.

He answered and it was really loud. And muffled.

I assumed it was a bad connection, but asked, "why is it so loud?"

His response? "It is the rain."

"The rain?"

"Yep."

"Why do I hear the rain?"

"Because I'm on my bike."

"EXCUSE ME?"

"I'm on my motorcycle."

"YOU BOUGHT A MOTORCYCLE AND ARE DRIVING IT IN THE RAIN WHILE TALKING ON THE PHONE ON A FIVE HOUR DRIVE TO DALLAS?"

Or something like that.

Hindsight has made it clear to me that he assumed he would elicit some sympathy by telling me he was driving in the rain on a bike.

He even had the audacity to whine about the chafing.

Cry me a river.

From here on out it gets a little fuzzy for me. This is what I remember...

tears
gnashing of teeth
wailing
yelling

..and a few other things kind of like that.

It is the only time in our 13 year marriage that I have gone 24 hours without speaking to him.

I went 48.

And not only was I steaming mad, I was terrified.

My dislike of motorcycles is not rooted in anything other than complete fear.

The thought of my husband in one of the largest cities in the United States--five hours from home--on a motorcycle about sent me over the edge.

I really thought he was going to die.

I am not exaggerating when I say that I was mad sad hurt angry disappointed devastated for weeks.

Slowly, I began to deal with it. Not accept it. Just deal with it.

He claims that he didn't realize the depth of my motorcycle hatred. After knowing me for 15 years.

(You've been reading this less than 5 minutes and I'm thinking you probably have a pretty good idea that I wouldn't be happy.)

Anyway.

For two years we've just chosen to ignore it. He's had the good sense to keep it at his parents' house--The House of the Co-Conspirators.

And this weekend?

I got my way True love conquered all.

To be continued...

(I thought you might like to know that The King loves to read your, ahem, comments each day...)

I Said Yes

I know that many of you endured a restless night out of concern for The King.

You can relax.

All is well. (I know. It's disappointing. I was giddy with the anticipation of the potential tale.)

Apparently the lack of a urinal in the bathroom caused him to pause...

And then freak out.

His freak out is warranted. He has had some experience in this department.

That would be the department of the erroneous bathroom.

I had a QBBQ post ready to go, but the almost embarrassing moment of The King gives me a great opportunity to recount an actual embarrassing moment of The King.

And I just can't let that pass by.

I've told you about our wedding night fiasco. Let me share our engagement fiasco.

The King and I had been dating for about 2 years. He was a junior in college and I was a sophomore. I knew that he was the one that I would marry, but I thought it would be after he graduated.

We were on our way to Little Rock on a Sunday evening. We had been on the road for less than an hour and I noticed he was all jittery. Then I noticed that he was getting all splotchy. Strange. He said that we needed to stop at McDonald's because he had to make a phone call (Word to the young 'uns: this was before the common use of cell phones. We were forced to use (gasp) pay phones.).

I went inside to go to the bathroom. I heard a person come into the bathroom, do their business, wash their hands, dry their hands and leave.

Then I heard a person come into the bathroom, do their business and leave.

Nasty.

After I washed and dried my hands I went into the restaurant. The King was waiting for me on one of those swivel chairs...you know the ones.

Anyway, his eyes were HUGE. His mouth fell open.

Before he could speak, I asked him if he'd seen which nasty girl had just left the bathroom without washing her hands.

His mouth was still hanging open.

I asked him if he needed me to heimlich him. He finally said, "Did you just come out of that door?"

I responded, "Um. The girls' bathroom? Yep."

He followed with, "So did I".

So he's the nasty.

I was so startled by his poor hygiene that I neglected to ponder why he had been in the girls' bathroom.

My bad.

So, we continued on our journey.

Another hour down the road and he is REALLY splotchy.

I was pretty sure that he was suffering the consequences of a communicable disease from 20 years of uncleanliness.

Or something.

Finally he pulled into a rest stop on the side of the interstate. He said he needed to check something for his dad.

What? The picnic facilities?

He pushed the driver's seat forward as if he were getting something from the backseat. The next thing I knew, he was down on one knee with a beautiful engagement ring.

I'm betting all of the truckers were enjoying the lovefest.

I am pretty sure that he asked me to marry him, though I don't specifically recall.

I do, however, recall the first words that came out of my mouth..."Does my dad know? He's gonna have a heart attack".

And I was serious.

I fretted the entire way back to our hometown (because we drove the entire way back to our hometown for some reason) that my dad was going to drop dead.

I even had The King's dad on standby at the end of our driveway because he was good at the CPR. Not that he'd ever done the CPR. But he was a volunteer fireman, and surely that counted for something.

To sum up this regrettably long story, my dad was fine. He loves The King. He was cool with it. Everyone was happy. I think everyone already knew but me - though that has never been confirmed or denied.

So last night's possible bathroom reversal had my curiosity up pretty high...what had him in such a tizzy that he was being a doofus again?

False alarm. All is well at The Palace.

By the way...his hygiene has improved considerably.

Uh-Oh

The King has just called me from a convenience store and he thinks he might be in the women's bathroom by accident...

Stay tuned.

Presenting King Malaprop & His Princess

mal·a·prop·ism - noun; /ˈmæləprɒpˌɪzəm/ (dictionary.com)
1. an act or habit of misusing words ridiculously, esp. by the confusion of words that are similar in sound.
2. The King's choice of speech

The King is kind of known for his butchering of the English language.

I'm just not sure that you can fully appreciate the depth of his misuse.

Let me give you a few examples:

"The Short and Tall of It"

"Did you pack my toiletries?" (pronounced toilet-terries)

"Give 'em a mile and they'll take an inch"

"The cat let it out of the bag"

"Whatever tickles your boat"

"He just got his desserts"

"That ought to rattle his buttons"

He took it to a whole new level yesterday: Biblical Malapropism.

I, unfortunately, was suffering from ridiculously painful cramps. Sorry. It is necessary for the story.

I was telling The King about it. All day long.

In a pathetic attempt at sympathy, The King said, "Stupid Mary. It's all her fault."

I'm trying really hard to remember anybody I know named Mary who might possibly be responsible for my chronic and unending torment.

Nothing. Mary?

Then it hit me.

"Do you mean Eve?"

"What?"

The King had already forgotten the previous conversation.

"Stupid Mary. Did you mean Eve?"

"Oh. Yeah. Her."

I began to tell The King that he cannot curse the mother of Jesus for my monthly affliction. She did nothing to cause the plight of generations of women. It was Eve. The Garden. The apple. The sinning.

It is pointless.

I know there is no hope.

I hit a bit of panic on Sunday night, though. It is possible that The King's malady is, and I shudder, genetic.

The TV was turned on to Geraldo at Large.

The Princess watched for a minute and said, "Mom, is JERALDO (with a J) Italic?"

"Excuse me?"

"Is Jeraldo Italic?"

"Um. Do you mean Italian? And that would be Geraldo (with an h sound)."

Falls into the floor laughing. Unable to breath.

At least she gets that she said it wrong. And that it is funny.

Perhaps there is hope. Maybe it is just a phase.

The King has a "special" word that he uses all the time to describe situations. Though he says it is a noun. (A descriptive noun, he says.) I've heard him use it on the phone. With real people.

Idiocracy.

That's his word.

This is how he often uses this word: "That's pure idiocracy."

So. I guess his definition would be something like "the act of being an idiot".

Hmmmm...

The Things We Do (& Don't Do) For Love

A few months ago, I mentioned that there was a major malfunction with our honeymoon.

I think Valentine's Day is the appropriate time to divulge our little mishap.

Our wedding was planned for December 17, 1994. At the time of the engagement, putting a wedding together the week before Christmas seemed like a delightful idea. The fact that I was away at college did not feel like an insurmountable obstacle. How could I have known that I would have 2 finals on December 16th?

Common sense has come to me gradually over the years.

Anyway. All of those factors led to my wedding being a product of The Queen Mother's Dreams. (QM, I loved the wedding. Don't get in a snit.)

I must say that her my our wedding was beautiful. It was a perfect Christmas wedding. The Queen Mother can pull off a shindig. Oh, can she pull off a shindig.

Somewhere in the midst of her wedding planning I recall her asking, "What about throwing potpourri wrapped in little tulle bags with matcing ribbons instead of the traditional birdseed?".

The Queen Mother loves potpourri. And tulle.

"Ok. Sure. Whatever." I would guess that my response sort of sounded like that.

Queen B is not known for her shindigs.

You know, I'm not sure who was lucky enough to score the job of stuffing potpourri in squares of tulle and securing them with the matching ribbon. (The Queen Mother is dialing my number right now to be sure that I know it was her.)

Fast forward through the lost tablecloths and screwed up string quartet to the reception.

Wait--we can't skip the quartet fiasco...they FORGOT THEIR MUSIC and played the same song the entire wedding. From the pre-game to the seating of whoever gets seated to the bridesmaids. Jesu Joy of Man' Desiring times three hundred forty seven. I thought QM was gonna stroke. Back to the reception....

We stuffed cake in each others' mouths and were ready to take off. (Our final destination was Maui, but we were driving 2 hours to Little Rock to spend the night and fly out early the next morning.)

We ran out to the car and were pelted with balls of potpourri. Lots of balls of potpourri. About 30 minutes into the trip I noticed that The King's neck was breaking out in hives. I asked him if he felt ok, and he said his throat was kind of feeling funny.

Of course it was.

Over the next few minutes, he really began to itch and his throat was kind of closing.

We stopped at a teensy convenient store and bought some Benadryl. He took a bunch and reclined back in the passenger seat. (When I say a bunch, I mean a bunch. He's the fella that eats Vicks Vapor Rub rather than put it on his chest. So it will work better. Nasty. And probably poisonous. Ok. Definitely poisonous.)

Why didn't we go to the hospital? Boon docks, people. We were in the middle of nowhere.

By the time we made it to Little Rock, he was feeling better. But...he was KO'd. I woke him enough to get him upright and into the Honeymoon Suite.

He fell onto the bed and was out like a light. For the night.

I manhandled our luggage and got out my "honeymoon outfit". Which I put on and ate chocolate covered strawberries. Alone. By myself. I watched a little TV. Called my dad on the phone. You know, normal wedding night kind of things.

I would venture a guess that we were the most well-rested newlyweds the airline had ever seen.

The Moral of The Story: Stick to the birdseed.

Happy Valentine's Day!!