The Forecast is Hot and Dry

My beloved is leaving me. Today. He is packing his bags and heading south. No, he's not off to fight for freedom. No, he's not trading me in for a newer, kinder model. The bastard is chasing the almighty dollar. And this is one momma that is not to thrilled about it. Oh, sure, it's not like he won't be back. In six weeks he'll arrive on my door step, eager to please, with his fists full of cash. Well, not really. Much more likely, he will slink back in the middle of the night, drop his luggage (in the middle of the living room,) and sneak into bed to cop a feel. Truthfully, I look forward to that cheap feel. Six weeks is a long time for this momma to not have her "cake."

Six weeks of soccer games solo. Six weeks of parenting Fric and Frac. Six weeks of not having any one farting in bed. Or leaving his dirty, balled up socks for me to find. Six weeks of not having an armpit to stick my nose into when I climb into bed. Six weeks of celibacy.

The closest I'm gonna get to getting my rocks off is having phone sex with my hubs who is notorious for falling asleep while on the phone.

Maybe I need to find myself a pocket rocket or a one of those little Rabbits everyone is talking about.

She Shoots, She Scores!

To those of you who wished my hubs and I well wishes on our anniversary, I thank you. Because it was looking like it was going to be the high point of my day. Really. And the way my luck was running, probably the most romantic part too.

Like the fool I am, I didn't realize #9 fell on a play-off date. Which meant that I spent the evening on the couch, next to my hubs, watching his team struggle to stay in the game. To be honest, I couldn't tell you if it was a good game or not. Between enjoying my cold, stale pizza and receiving a foot rub that alternated between either too hard or too soft depending on what end of the rink the puck was on, I wasn't paying too much attention. I was busy thinking of all the ways I would have enjoyed spending our anniversary (maybe a movie, maybe dancing, maybe a quiet romantic stroll) while drilling holes into the side of my beloved's head with my ice-ray glare. To which, he remained oblivious. Dope.

Nope, I could have worn a snazzy little french maid's outfit and licked Mr. Pickle and he still wouldn't have noticed me. He probably would have told me I was distracting him from the game and could I please be quiet? I could have cartwheeled naked through out the living room and he would have told me "You make a better door than a window."

This, dear internet, is the reality of marriage after nine years. Don't get me wrong, the man wasn't a completely obtuse. He brought home a funny, romantic card and my favorite treat: Tim Horton's. He called me every five minutes through out the day to make sure I knew he loved me and to remind me about the damn hockey game.
I knew that with the game well into over-time, if I ever wanted to see any action on my anniversary I would have to make a drastic maneuver. Without resorting to begging like a dog. I may be a fool, but I am no idiot.

Let's just say my hubs never got to see how the game ended. And he willingly turned the telly off. And he scored.

Funny, how wearing a hockey jersey could win my game...

Whose my Daddy?

Having survived a long weekend with five of my favorite nephews and niece, as well as saying good bye to my brother's puppy, you would think waking up this morning I would be the picture of Susie Sunshine, all bright eyed and bushy-tailed. Instead, imagine a bleary eyed, red-nosed grouch who seems to be in withdrawal. Like the town drunk, only I apparently, am in withdrawal from lack of urine to clean up. Go figure.

With all the kiddies gone home, to be tucked into their own beds, I counted on having a fairly blissful sleep. Hubs was home for the evening which meant there was even a chance for some romance in the night. I always was a dreamer. Instead of back rubs, and passionate kisses, we argued over who was going to get up and close the damn door. Because we are mature. Hubs, having lost that argument, decided to take revenge. Upon his return into our love nest, he rolled over and gazed sweetly into my eyes.

"You're not the boss of me you know." Hubs whined.

"I am if you want any tonight, big boy," I replied in my sexy voice.

He muttered something about revenge being a dish best served cold and then gave me a quick peck on the lips and rolled over.

"What, where's the love?" I countered. He looked over his shoulder, sighed like he is doing me a big favor and rolled back in my direction. I should have figured something was up when I saw the evil gleam in his eyes.

"Oh, I've got the love, baby. Don't you worry," he says as he reaches down to pull the covers up while closing his eyes to lay a big romantic kiss on me.

I have said it once, I will say it again. I, the Redneck mommy, am a fool. Outfoxed by a man. Bastard.

Instead of laying the big one on me, and kick starting our night of passion, he pulled the covers over our head (isn't that romantic?) and let loose the biggest, smelliest damn fart I have ever had the misfortune of inhaling. Picture me thrashing wildy around, trying to escape. While being poisoned.

When he deemed I had sufficiently inhaled enough of his sour gas, he loosened his iron grasp on the covers and let me come up for air.

"Whose your daddy now?" he purred.

Next time, I'll shut the damn door myself.