When I was a little girl growing up in the city, one of my favourite activities to do was go for a walk in the evening and peer into the windows of other people’s homes.

Wait, that came out wrong. That sounds like I hid in the bushes like some perverted stalker and pressed my nose up against the glass while longing for a different life. I only did that once or twice that I can remember.

Now as a grown up, I like to go to other peoples homes and discover that I am not the only one who doesn’t fold the laundry and immediately put it away when it’s out of the dryer.

Who am I kidding? I love to snoop and snicker behind my hand about that pink carpeting you live with accented by the forest green walls and the dried flowers that are broken, covered in dust and stuffed in some oversized vase in the corner.

We all need to feel superior at times.

When Sam asked me to come and play at her place, I rubbed myself with glee. How often does one get the keys to the castle at another’s place? I mean, I spend so much time over at my place” I often forget not everyone lives with a 50 foot tall angry redhead.

But unlike the time I was alone at my friend’s house while he was off at work, I won’t lock myself out of this place. Or open a medicine cabinet only to have the perfume come crashing out, break against the porcelain sink and splash all over me like it did at my uncle’s house when I was 17 and in the height of my snoopiness.

As a thirty-one year old, I’m a much better busybody. I’m a surface snooper now. I just peer about, take notes on furniture, wall coverings and doilies and then go on my gleeful way.

I’d never look in Sam’s underwear drawer. Or tell you about her fetish for all things leather. Hell, I would never mention the weird swing thing hanging over her bed that looks like a torture device.

When I told my husband yesterday that I was invited to desecrate all that is holy pee on the walls, er spread my cheer over on Sam’s blog, he looked at me and just shook his head.

“What? What’s wrong with that?” I asked him in a slightly high pitched I-can’t-believe-you voice.

“Nothing. It’s just why would she ask YOU?” Clearly my husband does not respect the authority that comes along with being the Redneck Mommy.

“What kind of question is that? Because she likes me you asshat.”

Sheesh.

“Well, I’d just thought she’d get somebody different..more…”

“More what?” I interupted. I was just itching to kick his ass for the wrong answer.

However, during this entire conversation, my darling dumbass husband was building his deck. Completely oblivious to any danger signs blinking madly at him in hopes of catching him before driving through the barricade and plummeting into the depths of spousal arguments and certain fiery death.

As he’s working a screw that refuses to be screwed (much like me later on that night) he muttered, “Someone who actually knows something. A real blogger.”

“What???” I screech. “What am I, a fake blogger?”

Now he’s annoyed, but I couldn’t tell whether he was frustrated with me or the damn screw.

“Obviously not. Here hold this,” as he stuffs the drill in my hand and proceeds to walk to his shed to look for something tool-like. “I just meant somebody who wider read. Had better stats. That’s all.”

“I am widely read. I’m FEARED in the blogosphere for how widely read I am!” I yelled after him.

Silence.

“I AM!!!” I screeched. As he wanders back and takes the screw out of my hand, he is shaking his head at me.

The nerve!!

“There are nothing wrong with my stats, I’ll have you know.”

“Honey, you’re no Dooce.”

Holy shit from heaven. How does my husband know about Dooce?

“How do you know about Dooce?” I ask in a highly suspicious voice.

“Everybody knows about Dooce. I read her. I like her.” Aha! The screw went in, and he moved on to the next one.

I’m slightly winded and mystified by this turn of events. My husband reads Dooce. Behind my back. What other secrets is he keeping from me?

“Well, who’s blog do you like better? Her or mine?”

“I think you are much prettier.”

“Coward.”

“Yep. But smart coward. Now pass me that level over there, sweetie.”

There has to be some marital law that says your husband must like your blog better than the reigning queen of the blogosphere. Even if it is a lie.

When he isn’t looking, I’m going to hide his drill. That’ll teach him to mess with me.