By: Angela Gillaspie © July 2001

I'm a kept woman.

This realization occurred to me the other day as my family and I went on a search-and-destroy mission, uh, I mean shopping at Wal-Mart. Needing some underwear, I stopped by the expansive and ransacked ladies' lingerie section and picked through the clear plastic packages until I found the brand that I have worn for the past couple of decades. With the wide selection of types, I couldn't figure out what kind to get. There were bikinis, briefs, high-cut briefs, high-cut bikinis, thongs, bikini-briefs, and several other kinds. Overwhelmed, I yelled over to my husband Paul, "Hey, honey? Which type of underwear do you usually buy for me?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a dozen or so female heads pop up above the racks reminding me of prairie dogs poking their heads out of their burrows, sniffing the air for something 'interesting'.

Paul walked over, eyed the packages, and plucked a size 8 bikini from the rack. "Since you're pregnant, you better go with an 8 instead of a 7, hon," he replied as he pushed the buggy toward the children's department.

As I looked after him in admiration, the lady closest to me perusing the 38DD bras started giggling and whispered, "I need a man like that, ayyup."

I remembered the first time I sent Paul on a pilgrimage for panties. After many failed attempts at going anywhere in public with an infant and a two-year-old, we decided that the humiliation (due to tantrums, flying stuffed animal projectiles, etc.) was too much for us. Therefore, I carefully wrote down the brand, size, and type of underwear I preferred. Armed and on a mission, he quickly conquered the lingerie department and moved on to other shopping obstacles like the selection of laundry detergent and green vegetables.

Before we had kids, everything was split 50-50. He worked - I worked. He cooked on Saturdays - I cooked on Sundays. He maintained his car - I kept gas in mine (when I remembered) and ignored the little red lights until my car made that endearing growling sound. I washed my clothes - he washed his clothes. I pointed out the bugs - he killed them. We split the shopping list and met at the checkout lane with me getting the fruit and vegetables and him getting the beer, cheese curls, and ice cream.

After kids, our areas of responsibility changed. Anything requiring us to take a child into public and risk humiliation was avoided at all costs. Shopping - all shopping (food, feminine hygiene products, clothing, etc.) - became Paul's job and anything to do with being at home became my job.

I make the grocery list - Paul shops. I break the toilet - he fixes it. He weed-eats and I reheat. I change the sheets - he washes the clothes. He works at the office valiantly scheduling long-haul deliveries despite dysfunctional trucks and misplaced merchandise - I work at home coding programs despite dysfunctional specifications and misplaced data. He cuts the grass - I plant the tomatoes. He drinks milk from the carton - I stash Oreos in my closet. I debug the computer and he debugs the house. I speak softly - he carries a big stick (or paddle). He makes the bacon and eggs - I make the biscuits and gravy. He balances the checkbook - I balance the budget. I'm the soccer coach - he's the football coach. I make him laugh - he keeps me sane.

My friends and family make fun of me because I have to tell Paul when I write a check, remind him when I'm low on gas, and ask him if he washed my favorite athletic bra. They overlook my gifts for negotiating mealtime peace treaties, explaining the physics behind underarm poot noises, and being able to catch more bugs than any other family member does.

Being a kept woman isn't really that horrible. Actually, Paul makes most of the other husbands look bad by knowing when to add fabric softener to the laundry and how to store bacon grease. And don't forget his talent for knowing exactly kind of underwear to buy his lucky wife.

Stay tuned for more SouthernAngel stories!