The Truth Is Out

Marianne is an intoxicating mix of psychosis and sensuality. I was doomed from the start to fall madly in love with her. Never in my life had I been so ruthlessly and efficiently hunted by a woman who knew what she wanted. Even when she was pushing me away, retrospect causes me to be suspicious that it was all part of some master plan, meticulously devised to achieve her desired ends, and all completely unbeknownst to me. Her wildcat certainly trumped my wolf and I am humbled. And it is not just in romantic endeavours that she is a force to be reckoned with. Recently a dear friend, while surrounding a campfire with a group that stayed with us following the wedding, coined the term "Attilla the Mom" at her expense - both funny and entirely accurate. Her role in our family is indispensable and her ability to master the house only recently grounded itself in an explanation.

The kids had gotten in the habit of 'pantsing' each other. Yes, it is as it appears. It is a colloquialism in which the noun 'pants' is turned into a verb. The action entails coming up behind someone, quickly grabbing their pants at both sides and instantly tugging them down while yelling "Pantsed!" While there are occasions that it might be inappropriate, I have to admit, there have been as many occasions when I couldn't help but laugh. Especially funny is when one of the boys, often in loose-fitting pajama pants, is bouncing up and down in front of some video game, completely distracted, and facing squarely towards the television. One of the other kids gives them a dose of pantsing and usually everyone laughs, including the victim.

Eventually, however, Marianne had had enough. Nevertheless, Marianne recognizes good hilarity as much as the next person, and it was all she could do to contain her own laughter when she laid down a rule that even she knew would be impracticable to enforce. "That's it! The next person who pantses someone will have to spend the entire next day naked, even if we go out shopping or you have to go to school!" She didn't realize until later how little the threat was to someone like Milo or Aiden who would just as happily forego the encumbrance of clothing in any situation. In fact, I don't think I would care much either, and the challenge was just too much to resist.

Later that day, Marianne was in the kitchen with myself and a few of the kids. She climbed up on to a blue stool that we keep handy in the kitchen to reach the higher shelves (since all of us are quite short, except for Rory of late). At the same moment I was leaning down to load some dishes into the dishwasher. When I lifted my head I found myself at eye level with her crotch. Never one to miss a golden opportunity, I grabbed her pajama pants and gave with a yank. What I found myself staring at only inches from my face was startling. Much to everyone's surprise, Marianne was wearing some kind of thong underwear with bright blue stripes, and the red Superwoman logo front and centre. The cut of the undies made them look like a cross between a Wonder Woman outfit and a Superman costume. I did a double-take and so did the kids. "What the . . .?"

Marianne, also never one to miss a golden opportunity, must have seen our expressions of dumbfounded surprise and, standing just above us aloft her stool mount, turned towards her audience, placed her feet at shoulder width, planted her fisted hands on her hips, and austerely stated, "So, . . . now you know." We all burst into uproarious laughter, and Marianne's reputation as Superwoman in our household was cemented. You are Superwoman, baby.

See you in hell,
Shakes.