“Cathy, we need to talk.”

“Uh-oh,” I said to myself. “He never calls me by name. Something’s up.”

My husband prefers to address me by one of many pet names accumulated over the decades: Honey, Sweetie, Dear, Lovey, Muffy (don’t laugh — it was an ’80s thing), Mommy (hey! if it was good enough for Ronnie and Nancy Reagan…), Baby, Girlfriend (yes, sometimes, he channels Oprah), Hot Smokin’ Mama (OK, I made that one up) and now, Lucy, which is the name of our cocker spaniel and, thus, a real pet name. It’s problematic, but that’s a column for another Sunday.

When my spouse calls me “Cathy,” it’s akin to my father calling me “Catherine Marie” in my youth. In other words, it means I’m in deep doo-doo.

But, what for, I wondered? What have I done to warrant the dreaded first name summons?

Did I hit the side of the garage again when I backed the car out this morning?

Did I borrow his beloved bamboo backscratcher and not return it to its proper spot?

Did he catch me flirting with that handsome 30-something in the restaurant the other night? A gal can flirt, can’t she? Especially if the guy is the bartender and she’s trying to woo him into pouring more Syrah in her glass? The economy’s still in the toilet. A girl’s gotta do ….

I walked warily to the sofa and sat down, bracing myself.

“I want an honest answer,” he said, solemnly. “Just tell me the truth, OK?”

I gulped audibly, and nodded.

“You’ve been throwing away my underwear, haven’t you?”

I didn’t know whether to be relieved or mortified.

“Where did you get that idea?” I asked, my face flushing.

With that, he walked out to the garage and returned, holding an old pizza box. He lifted the lid slowly to reveal a pair of torn and tattered tighty-not-so-whities.

Busted!!

I sat in silence, thinking about how I could finesse this awkward situation. The truth was, I’d been pitching those awful old shorts of his for decades. Why? Because HE refused to!

“Look at them! They were falling apart,” I replied, defensively. “What if you had to go the emergency room?”

“Are you telling me your biggest concern in the ‘me in the emergency room’ scenario would be the condition of my underpants?” he asked.

“Oh, stop it.” I snapped back. “I’d want you to be OK first. But, people know me in this town. What would they say if they cut off your Carhartts to pull the nail gun out of your thigh and saw those dingy, ripped-up Fruit of the Looms?”

“They’re not Fruit of the Loom! They’re Kirkland, the Costco brand,” he countered.

“THAT’S EVEN WORSE!!!” I screamed.

“Besides,” I continued, suddenly unafraid, “They’re not a bit sexy. How would you like it if I pranced around in panties that were hanging onto the waistband by a few threads of lace …”

I stopped short as a familiar lascivious look crept onto his face (I call it the “Saturday night leer”) and I realized that particular argument was going to be counter-effective.

“Never mind,” I said, hastily. “Yes. I’ve been throwing away your underwear. So, sue me!”

“You have depleted my seven-day rotation,” he complained. “Now I can’t make it through the week.”

“Then go to Costco and buy yourself some NEW ONES!”

“Maybe I will,” he said, snapping the pizza box closed and walking away. As if, by threatening to enter a warehouse store and put money down on an economy pack of size 38 briefs, he’d show me a thing or two.

I smelled victory. That, or pepperoni.

Gloating, I got up from the sofa and made a beeline for our closet.

“Wonder what else I can throw away,” I said to myself, feeling empowered. “Maybe that ugly red plaid shirt he insists on wearing, or those sneakers that should be fumigated before going to the landfill.”

Suddenly, a wet towel on the floor caught my attention. I picked it up and carried it to the laundry room. Tossing it onto the dirty clothes, I spied a telltale waistband peeking out from under a pillowcase at the bottom of the pile.

I plucked it out and held ’em high — the torn and tattered tighty-not-so-whities, sporting a brand new pizza sauce stain.

He may have won the battle, but he didn’t win the war.

— Cathy Hamilton is a 54-year-old empty nester, wife, mother and author. She can be reached at can be reached at 832-6319.