Infestation of Love
/As most of you know, my husband Boo works out of town.
There isn't a high demand for hugely endowed professional Nordic masseuses er, um, independent contractors here in the sticks so he travels to the big bad cities to sell his services.
We spend a lot of time apart (like eleven months out of every year) as I spend most of my time raising his children and maintaining our homestead while he takes his buddies to random strip joints featuring one legged vertically challenged strippers.
Oh sure, he says he actually works while he's away from home, but I've never seen any evidence of this. Well, except for the paychecks he keeps mailing home. But for all I know he earns that money sucking on the toes of elderly retirees.
I happen to know Boo is a very talented toe sucker.
(It's like I can't stop myself. I hear the voice on my shoulder telling me to shut the hell up but my fingers have a mind of their own. Seriously. I love you Boo.)
My husband knows I spend the majority of my days trying to keep my daughter from dreaming of a life twirling around a pole and teaching my son that orange jumpsuits aren't a good look on him, all the while pushing our youngest son around in a wheelchair and acting like a performing monkey for the masses, jumping through rings of fire to ensure the inmates don't stage a coup while he's gone.
He's very sympathetic to my plight as a stay at home mother to his children.
I mean, he's met these kids. He knows exactly how far the apples didn't roll from our trees.
So in what has morphed into a long standing tradition, he likes to bring his charming and beautiful wife (that'd be me, at least in this city) a little something something every time he darkens his door.
Not that type of something something. That generally comes later. After the kids are in bed and a the wine bottle has been drained.
Boo always brings me a gift when ever he comes home. A small token to express his love and appreciation for all I do in his absence.
In other words, he isn't above bribing me to stick around when he shows up instead of running into the forest and towards sweet freedom and away from the madness that is single parenting domesticity while I have the chance.
Generally, Boo brings home flowers or wine or crotchless panties. He knows I'm easy and like a kid with ADD, highly distractable. One minute I'll be bitching about how hard it is to parent three children all by myself and the next minute I'll be all "Oh look! Something shiny!"
Works every time.
This time though, he tried something a little different. A gift a little more unconventional for the woman he has been married to for well over a decade.
A trinket a tad more unorthodox for the woman he impregnated and watched as his offspring clawed their way out of her insides like a bunch of rabid angry badgers.
He brought home worms.
Seriously. I reached into my shiny refrigerator to grab some eggs and found this instead:
Sure he claims he was being thoughtful but dude, there is motherf*cking leeches in my refridgerator.
Blood suckers.
Boo, you want to bring home a blood sucker for me, make sure it's a he, is of Viking descent, bleeds from the eyes and his name rhymes with Deric.
(Although, if you are unable to locate said bloodsucking undead Viking, feel free to put in a pair of plastic vampire teeth, slick your hair back and call me Sooookeh in an exasperated voice while biting on my neck and we could just have something to work with.)
Ahem.
I mean, there is a huge difference between the blood suckers in my fridge and the blood sucker in my dreams. Just for any future reference dear Boo.
I know, I know. I like to fish. You know I like to fish.
You were trying to be thoughtful.
But your definition of thoughtful and my definition of thoughtful are two obviously very different things.
Thoughtful to me would have been surprising me with a new lure and the suggestion to go fishing.
Thoughtful to you is obviously infesting my fridge and contaminating the very appliance that keeps food from spoiling so that I may safely feed the small starving mouths we are legally responsible for.
Still, I applaud your efforts. While I was busy squealing like a school girl over the live meal worms squirming around in a clear ziploc baggie, I was totally distracted from remembering that it's tough work being alone all the time.
So you get points for creativity. This time. Next time you bring me insects to prove your love, I'm kicking your ass.
A bag full of maggots will only get you laid once in your life time.
You just used up your quota.
(I told y'all I was easy.)
There isn't a high demand for hugely endowed professional Nordic masseuses er, um, independent contractors here in the sticks so he travels to the big bad cities to sell his services.
We spend a lot of time apart (like eleven months out of every year) as I spend most of my time raising his children and maintaining our homestead while he takes his buddies to random strip joints featuring one legged vertically challenged strippers.
Oh sure, he says he actually works while he's away from home, but I've never seen any evidence of this. Well, except for the paychecks he keeps mailing home. But for all I know he earns that money sucking on the toes of elderly retirees.
I happen to know Boo is a very talented toe sucker.
(It's like I can't stop myself. I hear the voice on my shoulder telling me to shut the hell up but my fingers have a mind of their own. Seriously. I love you Boo.)
My husband knows I spend the majority of my days trying to keep my daughter from dreaming of a life twirling around a pole and teaching my son that orange jumpsuits aren't a good look on him, all the while pushing our youngest son around in a wheelchair and acting like a performing monkey for the masses, jumping through rings of fire to ensure the inmates don't stage a coup while he's gone.
He's very sympathetic to my plight as a stay at home mother to his children.
I mean, he's met these kids. He knows exactly how far the apples didn't roll from our trees.
So in what has morphed into a long standing tradition, he likes to bring his charming and beautiful wife (that'd be me, at least in this city) a little something something every time he darkens his door.
Not that type of something something. That generally comes later. After the kids are in bed and a the wine bottle has been drained.
Boo always brings me a gift when ever he comes home. A small token to express his love and appreciation for all I do in his absence.
In other words, he isn't above bribing me to stick around when he shows up instead of running into the forest and towards sweet freedom and away from the madness that is single parenting domesticity while I have the chance.
Generally, Boo brings home flowers or wine or crotchless panties. He knows I'm easy and like a kid with ADD, highly distractable. One minute I'll be bitching about how hard it is to parent three children all by myself and the next minute I'll be all "Oh look! Something shiny!"
Works every time.
This time though, he tried something a little different. A gift a little more unconventional for the woman he has been married to for well over a decade.
A trinket a tad more unorthodox for the woman he impregnated and watched as his offspring clawed their way out of her insides like a bunch of rabid angry badgers.
He brought home worms.
Seriously. I reached into my shiny refrigerator to grab some eggs and found this instead:
Meal worms, maggots and dew worms oh my!
Just taking this picture I had a flashback to when I was 12 and found a leech stuck on my left ass cheek.
Sure he claims he was being thoughtful but dude, there is motherf*cking leeches in my refridgerator.
Blood suckers.
Boo, you want to bring home a blood sucker for me, make sure it's a he, is of Viking descent, bleeds from the eyes and his name rhymes with Deric.
(Although, if you are unable to locate said bloodsucking undead Viking, feel free to put in a pair of plastic vampire teeth, slick your hair back and call me Sooookeh in an exasperated voice while biting on my neck and we could just have something to work with.)
Ahem.
I mean, there is a huge difference between the blood suckers in my fridge and the blood sucker in my dreams. Just for any future reference dear Boo.
I know, I know. I like to fish. You know I like to fish.
You were trying to be thoughtful.
But your definition of thoughtful and my definition of thoughtful are two obviously very different things.
Thoughtful to me would have been surprising me with a new lure and the suggestion to go fishing.
Thoughtful to you is obviously infesting my fridge and contaminating the very appliance that keeps food from spoiling so that I may safely feed the small starving mouths we are legally responsible for.
Still, I applaud your efforts. While I was busy squealing like a school girl over the live meal worms squirming around in a clear ziploc baggie, I was totally distracted from remembering that it's tough work being alone all the time.
So you get points for creativity. This time. Next time you bring me insects to prove your love, I'm kicking your ass.
A bag full of maggots will only get you laid once in your life time.
You just used up your quota.
(I told y'all I was easy.)