My Husband's Hottie Boss
by Cheryl O'Donovan
The good news is, my husband's found work after being unemployed for four months. The bad news: his supervisor is a thirty-year-old redheaded temptress whose vanity plates read '2 Hot 4 U.'
'She's harmless,' my husband says, lifting
his arms as I spray on more flooze repellent.
My voice squeaks with strain. 'What's 2 Hot 4 U's name?'
'Bambi Amber BadaBinger.'
I frown.
'Oh, Cheryl. You're not going to drive out to where I
work again, are you?'
Already, I am calculating how I can fight back. With my
teeth, I can tear off the opener to a Wet Wipes and lob
it at her, grenade style. I can plant a mushy peanut
butter sandwich from one of my son's backpacks in her
briefcase. Or better yet, instead of her sipping on her
Starbucks, substitute the glass of sour milk my son
forgot about three weeks ago, found wedged in between
the boards of his bunk bed. That would bring her to her
waxed, bronzed knees.
'You don't even know what she looks like,' my husband
adds.
Doesn't matter. I have the scent tracking power of a
Bloodhound. I will know her on sight. Eye-pleasing?
She's eye-popping. Before her corporate career, she
headlined the Pussycat Dolls Homewrecker Tour. HR asked
her to move her exotic dancer's pole from her cubicle.
It distracted the CEO too much. Her uber-pouty lips are
gooey with twelve layers of gloss; her chest and
derriere jiggle like reinforced Jell-O. She will be
wearing one of those godforsaken thongs. I shudder. A
thong. That's like having a Stealth in your arsenal.
I might use a thong as a slingshot or in a pinch, as a
horse bit. Then again, the horse might rear on me.
'You know,' he chuckles, tucking in his dress shirt, and
then weaving a belt around the loops of his pants. 'It's
kinda cute. She calls me Taylor
'W-who is Taylor?' I sputter, almost frisking him for
motel receipts.
'Some contestant on American Idol. She thinks I look
like him.'
Dear God, I think, pacing. Nicknames. I picture her
coyly waving under the neon VACANCY sign, cooing to my
husband. 'Here, Taylor, Taylor!'
My jaw sets with determination. For an adversary of this
magnitude, I will need more than a makeover. I will need
a blood transfusion. Forget the multi-vitamin or one-day
spa retreat. Wheel me straight into Frankenstein's
laboratory. A couple of lightning zaps, some
dermablasting and a teeth whitener strip. Voila. Ready
for my close-up, Max.
My husband is ready to leave. He pauses, feeling
something in his pocket. 'What is this?'
'Tracking device. Like in Goldfinger.'
'You sending Oddjob to follow me, too?'
I nod, holding up the flint. 'I filed his hat this
morning.'
'Don't you trust me?' He tosses the tiny electronic
device onto the kitchen table. 'Crazy woman.' He kisses
me goodbye.
From our living room window, watch his gold Honda ease
out of the drive, I smile. Silly man. He doesn't know I
planted one in his shirt pocket' his briefcase' his
glove compartment' near the carburetor' at his cubicle,
behind his monitor... in his thermos' behind 2 Hot 4 U's
vanity plates'
About the Author:
Cheryl O'Donovan is a humorist and cartoonist who
lives near Chicago, IL (USA). She is happily married and has two kids and an Airedale terrier.
Her successful humor book, 'The Estrogen Underground,' is geared for women over forty.
Visit the web site at:
www.cherylodonovan.com
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