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.'
'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
'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