Domestic Red

When I arrived home from work today Tyler was standing in the kitchen surrounded by empty shopping bags and a general conglomeration of foodstuffs, and there was a large cauldron on the stove fairly bubbling over with a mysterious red liquid.

I didnt expect that.

I expected to come home and find something typical like Bud watching football in my room naked, or CB shooting his bow off the roof, or Dad in the basement rifling through my collection of high-end sporting goods.

Instead, I came through the carport, looked in the back window, and there she was in all her dirty-blonde domestic glory, complete with light sheen of perspiration and a dried spray of tomato sauce on her forehead.

Surprised, I paused and immediately identified the cauldron as containing some form of meaty peasant stew (or "chili" as I believe the plebian hordes sometimes call it); but what I appreciated the most was her dress: she was clad in a t-shirt, one of my fleece pullovers, running shorts, no socks, and the piece-de-resistance: a brand-new pair of women's green rubber knee-high hunting boots.

She was tromping about the kitchen waving her chili-spoon at an imaginary orchestra and singing "The Battery" by The Lost Trailers, woefully off-key, at the top of her voice:

"OHHHHH, I WOOOKEEEEE UP ON THE BATTTERRRYYY ON A CHARLESTON FRRIIIDDAYYY NIIIGHT, WITH MY DIRT-STAINED CORDUROYS AND 'BALANCES CRUMPLED UP BY MYYY SIIIDDEEE. SAID GOODBYE TO MY COMPANY, AND I SHOOK IT ON DOWNNN THE LINNNNEEEE!!!!"

Which just goes to show you: theres a little red in everybody.