The Gift That Will Keep on Giving

My darling Boo has been gone for more than two months. I have seen him twice in that time. It's been a long, dry spell, for this Mommy, if you catch my meaning. Wink, Wink. Really, to all you wives of soldiers or really, to any wife whose husband is gone for extended absences, I applaud you. Because this ain't easy. Besides the fact that I'm missing my husband, I am the sole parent. My kids see this, acknowledge this, then go to their bedrooms and have a powwow to discuss the many ways they can slowly drive their mother into a drooling, rocking shell of a human. They're like little hyenas, circling their prey, laughing all the while.

My darling Boo, says I can handle it. That, dear internet, is because the bastard doesn't have to deal with his offspring. If I have to listen to any more arguments over who didn't flush the damn toilet, who stole my pencil crayon (heaven forbid they need that exact one, when there are literally hundreds more) or whose turn it is to wash the dishes, I'm gonna go kamikaze on their asses. Just so you know.

Then there are my inlaws. I love these people dearly. Really, I do. (My mantra, I'll just keep repeating it.) But why should I have to deal with my darling's mother if he won't? Why do I have to explain, over and over again when Boo will be home. Phone them your damn self, dear husband.

But alas, I know I do all this, because I'm a sucker I love him. And it is this passionate love that I have for him that drove me to a moment of insanity. I thought I was being cute, I thought I was being a good wife.

What did I do? Why, thanks for asking, dear internet. I actually posed naked for pictures to my goon.

Not Hustler pics, no,no. I wouldn't want to scare the poor man. Or make him cry. No, these were tasteful nudies. Black and whites, taken with all the skill and patience I have acquired as my years of a journalist.

Read: A lot of fucking swearing and cursing, repositioning so a tit doesn't hang out, and the kids knocking at the bedroom door, wondering what's going on to make mommy so angry.

Hours later, and every single muscle in my body limp with exhaustion, I had the final product. So I sent the package up North with cookies, and a love letter and eagerly awaited his response. All the while, feeling immensely proud of myself. I had gotten past my low self esteem and did something nice for my hubby. Something tasteful that I could be proud of.

My darling hubs got his package. He ate his cookies. He carried on. No response. Days later, I asked him if he received anything special.

He chuckled, and then said thanks. Oh, and the cookies were good, he replied.

The fucking cookies?? Slowly, I exhaled, and bite my tongue. I asked him if he liked the pics. (Bastard's already in the dog house. He looses points for making me ask about the damn photos.)

He chuckles again, says they were NICE. Oh, yeah, and thanks. Could I send him any more of those cookies?

As the steam is pouring out of my ears, I asked him what he thought of the photos where I twisted and contorted my naked body for hours so that I could give him beautiful, tasteful pictures of me for him to enjoy.

"Oh, you looked real pretty in all of them. But I couldn't see anything good."

"That's why they are tasteful Boo. You get a hint of what is there, and you are supposed to use your imagination." I reply.

"Well, it would have been easier if you just gave me a money shot."

And that dear internet, is the romance I share with my husband.

And just so you know, I didn't take the money shot. I sent him a Hustler mag instead. Pervert.

Morphing into a Metal Momma

I have a secret. Well, technically, I suppose I have many. But I only have one today that I am worried about. Let me explain, dear internet. You see, we all have different ways of dealing with our grief. Mine has been to do some slight body modifications, blog and cry. My husband's has been to abandon me, chase the almighty dollar and work himself into oblivion. (Aren't we the picture of health?) I forgive Boo for wanting to work out of town. I understand his reasons, I even agree with them. Sometimes. It is hard to remember that I agreed to this in the middle of the night and the only thing I have to snuggle up to is the damn dog who keeps letting out puffy little farts while his butt is a mere inch from my nose. But I digress.

Boo has been gone now since July 31. It's been a long stretch. He has managed to make it home twice in the seven weeks he has been gone. For a day at a time. It's not much, but it is certainly more than military wives receive and I am thankful. But in between his sporadic visits, I am left alone to fill my time and putter. And cope.

And let's face it. I'm not always so great at the coping part. There is only so many blogs and books I can read. Only so many shows I can watch on my three whole channels. And now that the kids are back in school, well that leaves house cleaning. Ahem. I mean, that should leave house cleaning, right?

But in my newly found understanding of life, I have decided life is much too short to worry about the dust on the mantle. So I ignore it and focus on the big things. Like babysitting my five month old nephew every day for ten hours a day. And when I don't have the devil baby himself, then I'm left alone trying to fill my days using my twisted imagination.

Somewhere along the way, about a week ago, I decided it was time for some more body modification. (My therapist sees the hole poking as a way to release my pain. I disagree. I think it just looks cool.)

So off to the piercing place I went. And out I came with two more spectacular holes. One in each boob.

They are healing, but my nipples are slightly green from bruising.

I haven't told my darling Boo. Who is a mere four hours from walking through the front door, tossing down his bags and wanting to reunite. Wink, wink.

Imagine his surprise when he finds his wife with a few new holes and oddly colored nipples.

Good times, dear internet, good times.

And as a side note, when some one tells you that you may feel a slight pinch. Don't believe them. Instead, you are about to feel as though someone is ramming a dull butter knife through your boob. Just so you know.

Ask and Ye Shall Receive

When I grew up I didn't want to be a doctor. Or a lawyer. Or a teacher. No, no, when I was growing up, I had the dream of becoming the internet's greatest porn momma in the whole world. People would rush to their computers and eagerly type in Redneck mommy and then sigh with relieved ecstasy at the sight of my naked body glowing blue on their screen.

No, wait, that was last night's dream.

Because I am a sucker for a pretty please, and because I wanted to put my ass out there for public ridicule, I present to you my newly inked backside.

So please, for the sake of my very fragile ego, please overlook the stretch marks and dimples. Because in my mind I am flawless. Please pretend you don't see the strip of skin that accidentally got tanned while I was bent over in the garden. Focus on the tattoo, and ignore my hairy ass.

And Boo, just know that I love you. Because if you were home with me, instead of making kissy eyes with your small town hoes, I never would have had to post my arse on the net for the world to ridicule.


****P.S. If any of you have any suggestions about how to remove the tape marks on my back with out taking a layer of dermis off, I'd really love to hear them.****