And Evil Is Her Name
By Lisa Kunkleman
My husband just texted me asking, “What evil are you up to?” He started calling me Evil when I asked him to stop calling me Sweet Thing when he is being sarcastic.
I said, “I’d rather you call me Evil or even Sweevil than call me Sweet Thing when we all know it’s not true.”
I wonder what he thinks I do all day. Can I tell him? I try to make sure everybody is happy or at least not an emotional, stressed-out wreck. With a twenty-four-year-old, engaged daughter who works three jobs and is also a student, and seventeen-year-old triplets with enough schoolwork daily to fill a week, plus their extra-curricula’s, if everybody’s emotional pot blows at once, the household is in big trouble. I do what I can to keep everybody’s pot at a simmer or at best a slow boil.
Maybe he needs an example. Elder Daughter called to see if I could help her shop for wedding reception supplies. Younger Daughter requested we have a family dinner because as she says, “Everybody else’s family is able to sit down together and eat a home cooked meal every night so why can’t we?” Yeah, right. Sure they do, I think to myself.
Now, here I sit, trying to write, clammy with guilt. I told Elder Daughter I have an assignment due for my writing class, to which she graciously said, “It’s ok, we can do another day.” Of course I felt like Motherzilla of the Bride and was about to call her back to say I’d meet her. Then Younger Daughter texted to say, “What’s the dinner plan?”
I texted back, “BBQ chicken.”
I thought maybe I could throw some BBQ sauce on those chicken tenders and have it in a pan right ready for one of my very capable two sons to slide it into the oven if I wasn’t back from errands with Elder Daughter. Then a text came in asking if I can help Younger Daughter with her US History tonight because she is in dire need and has a test tomorrow. I, of course, texted back saying, “Yes.” Then I remembered Younger Son who I promised to help edit an English paper and try to find research material on-line with him. I am needed. Maybe if I tell my husband all this, he’ll see how indispensable I am.
Here’s where Evil enters. I have a deep, dark secret. It’s the final rose night for The Bachelor and I’ll be needed everywhere except in front of the TV. My decadent side wishes I could relax and watch this ridiculous show with Elder Son so we can make fun of the girls we don’t like. Yep. It’s shallow entertainment with way, too much smooching, but Elder Son and I look forward to this idiocy every week along with all the other silly people who have kept the show going for twelve seasons. We are different from those people, however, because we really only watch for the exotic locations. At least that is what we tell everybody.
Then, at ten, my husband, a delightful man, but not as guilt-ridden over his children’s schoolwork as I, will expect our date time to watch our favorite detective show, Castle. I’d love it. Castle is a writer on the show. But for tonight I’d prefer to watch my recorded version of the Bachelor giving out that final rose before I hear all about it on-line and on the news. I want to see with my own eyes which girl he sends home in tears. Is that too much to ask? Am I really Evil to want that shallow time just for me? Oh and for my six foot tall, muscular, Elder Son who always falls asleep before the final rose and wakes up wanting to know who went home. I’m thinking of my husband anyway. He looked tired so he probably needs to get to sleep early. We’ll watch Castle together tomorrow night. Goodnight Honey. And Evil is her name.