Shut up and Shoot Me...Please

I am still fighting the plague. My nose won't stop running and is now beginning to get all red and sore from the constant abuse of me honking into tissues that could be a whole lot softer.







Those myths about spunk, sperm, man gravy, sausage juice, semen, love batter, sex goo, life affirming essence, seed of lurve, penile discharge or what ever the hell you want to call it, curing all that ails you...is shit.

I have carpet burn, lock jaw, and a sore throat.

Sorry honey, but your peckercillin, does not in fact, cure what ever ails me.

But it was a good try.

I suppose I shouldn't bitch. I do, in fact, have new car keys.

(This would be one of the posts I sincerely hope no one in either Boo's family or mine read...)

Ahem.

On to the pun. (Although, some might see the pun value in the cartoon...Again, hope the inlaws aren't reading.)


Sign in a pet shop window: "Free legless parakeet. No perches necessary."

Cut me some slack. I'm sick. I never promised quality.

Devil In A Blue Dress

With the hubby out of town, hard at work to accomodate the lifestyle I have become accustomed to (snicker, I like to buy the REAL bologna, not that SPAM crap), our relationship has once again fallen to the mercy of telephone calls, dirty text messages and emails.

I'm not much of an email type of gal, and luckily for me, Boo's not much of a reader. I spend so much of my day plugging away at my keyboard working blogging, that I don't have much energy to muster up some clever love letter for my hubs.

We've tried the text messaging route before, but Boo is unable to navigate the line between naughty and playful to just down right skeevy and perverted. For example, last night I received this little gem:

Hey! Nice TITS! Call me. I've got something for you to suck on. xoxo your big bad boo

Yeah, nothing like a little creepy foreplay while I'm out on the soccer field with a bunch of nine year old boys who are pulling their jerseys over their heads and eating grass instead of actually playing soccer, to get me in the mood. Especially when the nosy neighbour leans over and reads my text message.

By the look on her face, she was sorry she bothered. You'd think she never read the word TITS before.

This leaves us with telephone calls to remind each other that we are still in love, or at least legally obligated to keep telling one another that. Generally, our phone calls are brief, as Boo tends to fade in the evening after busting his arse for twelve long hours. I try to pretend I know what he's talking about when he prattles on about what ever the hell it is he does for a living, and he tries to act interested in whatever gossip I have gleaned over the course of the day.

He likes to hear a play by play of my day, who I have visited and what I have spent. I like to hear if he's discovered any more hot Asian chicks, and he wants to know if the Piano Man has managed to land himself another twenty year old biscuit. We like to live vicariously through one another.

Last night, I told him that Jen nominated me for a Perfect Post award. This is a big deal for me, seeing as how it was my first ever nod in that direction. (I'm still kissing Jen's purdy little bum for it, too.)







Boo, only half interested, as he was surfing his nightly allotment of online porn, ummh'ed and ahh'ed at appropriate intervals while I excitedly relayed the details. When I was done, I sat there attentively, waiting for my hard earned accolades to start rolling in.

"That's nice dear. Will this help you win the Hottest Mommy award?"

"Uh, no, not really. But that's not the point..." I counter.

"Because I'm looking here, and I notice you are slipping in the ranks. You really need to step this up if you have any hopes of winning, you know. Maybe you need to be funnier. Write better or something."

That's nice. I'm getting writing critiques from a man who consistently confuses which there and their and they're to use. Sure, it's just that easy to be funnier. Let me just pull the funny out of my ass.

"Need I remind you, Boo, I DON'T want to win. You want me to win. You want to be able to post those damn pictures of me on the net to rub it in my face that I'm a complete moron for having married you, er, I mean taken those pics in the first place. I don't want to win. By not winning, I WIN and YOU lose. Sounds good to me."

"Whatever. We could always end this if you would just admit I'm right, you're wrong and let me show a couple of the guys in the coffee room some of the less revealing ones. They don't believe me that my wife is hot and I don't have any pics of you other than those. That'd give the boys something to chew on."

"You're an asshat. If you show those pics to anyone you won't have to worry about getting any on our anniversary. You can give yourself your own damn blowjob once I rip off your willy and stuff it down your throat."

Laughing, "Sure, sure. You're just getting fiesty because you miss me."

"You're delusional. How 'bout this Boo. You let me take dirty photos of you and post them on the net. I GUARANTEE I'd win Hottest Mommy then."

"That's just sick, T. Don't even joke about that."

"Come to think of it, Boo, I think I still have that copy of that pic I took of you when we were 20 when you surprised me by wearing my negligee (which he ripped getting it on and off.) I could post THAT picture...hmmm..."

"I burned that picture," he hastily replied. "Besides, I have no recollection of every doing anything like that." He sounds nervous now.







"Yeah, I think that's what I'm gonna do. If I win the Hottest Mommy contest, you can post all the nudies you want of me. After all, they look pretty darn good, if I say so myself. But I'll just post you and the blue nighty right next to them. We can do the walk of shame together. Maybe we should print off copies and pass them out at this years family reunion. Show them how united we really are as a couple..."

"I'm going to go to bed." Suddenly, it isn't so funny for him anymore.

"You're a chicken shit."

Let the voting begin. Maybe my boy will learn if you mess with the bull, you are going to get the horn.

Sex, Drugs and The Wet Spot

My husband has been working out of town for a year now. It wasn't an easy transition for a woman who just lost her son four months prior and had never been a single parent. There were many days when I wondered if our family would survive Boo's absences.

I discovered my kids are very resilient and absence really does make the heart grow fonder. I really do love my husband. I didn't just stay married to him all those years because it was easy and he was cute. Who knew?

A year later, we have found our family groove. We function fairly cohesively when the daddy dude is gone, (providing I remember to order water and um, heat...) and when the hubs makes his mighty return, after a bump or two, it's like he never left.

He's been gone for three weeks and he will be gone again tomorrow night, trading in family and comfort for what ever hot little Asian chick he can find. (Not to mention, trolling on-line for some coffee buddies.) Family bonding is priority number one right now. The kids stay up past their bedtimes, cuddling on the couch with the dad, while watching inappropriate movies and I drink my mommy juice, enjoying the time I have as not being the sole person responsible for child safety.

I've also been enjoying something else. Since it's been a while since we've laid eyes on each other and we don't know when we will see each other again, the hubs and I have been busy doing what married couples do. As often as possible.

Fornicating.

We try to be quiet about it. We try to make sure the kids are either outside or sleeping. But when you only have 48 hours, beggars aren't going to be choosers around these parts. In other words, we tell the kids we are taking a nap. And please don't disturb us.

We're very old. We need our sleep.

Wink, wink.

There was a small bump in the road with that plan last night. My son, Frac, is very sick with strep throat. And as the little man he is, he's a bit of a whiny wimp about it, constantly complaining about how sore his throat is, and how yucky he feels.

Because I am a loving mother, I decided to ease my son's suffering and get a couple hours of not having to listen to him complain. I tried to knock him out by giving him some over the counter cold medication that would normally knock me out and make me sleep. It didn't work like that for my son. What it did do was stone him out of his tree. (Which, I suppose, did achieve the purpose of shutting him up, because while he never slept, he wasn't whining.)

The hubs and I, thinking that our children were fast asleep, got naked. All was right with the world (read: Mommy got hers) and we were enjoying ourselves (read: Daddy was having his turn) when in wandered our son.

Who, thankfully, wasn't wearing his glasses (he's blind as a bat without them) and was higher than a kite in a wind storm. Since I was a little busy at that particular moment, I didn't notice the boy standing three feet behind us. However, my husband did.

Suddenly, I hear my husband ask my son what he is doing. WTF? I think and I freeze. And panic. AS ANY GOOD PARENT WOULD DO.

Not my hubs though. He just slowed down a bit and kept talking to my kid. Like he wasn't going to town on the poor kid's mother, like the poor kid wasn't confused, like his wife wouldn't mind having sex in front of her child.

Well, his wife DID mind, and I artfully um, disengaged in said activity and asked my stoned son what was the matter. Frac didn't know. At this point, he didn't know much of anything, including where he was. As I walked him back to his room, he only bumped into three walls. (Thank GAWD! It only proved he couldn't see anything or ANY PARENT HAVING SEX in the dark.)

Upon my return, I noticed a sour look on my husband's face. I asked him what was the matter. Apparently, he was only a few strokes short of his goal and he was feeling a tad frustrated.

Poor baby. After a few minutes of fruitless whining and begging for me to return to said activity, he rolled over, muttered under his breath about something about having kids with bad timing and then promptly started snoring.

Me, I was still a little disconcerted about what had just happened. Did I just scar my boy for life? Did he see me naked? Did he notice my jiggly bits? How much money in therapy bills would this cost to fix? What if mentions this to THE ADOPTION CASE WORKER WHO IS COMING TO INTERVIEW US TOMORROW???

Lucky for me, all of my worries flew out of my mind rather quickly. That tends to happen when I roll over and discover that I have to sleep in the wet spot.




I must be slipping. Usually I can choreograph the action so that I avoid all wet spot irritations. As I went to grab a towel, I swear I heard my husband snickering softly.

Laugh all you want Boo.

At least I got my cake.


***Turns out, my snotty-nosed, froggy throated child remembers nothing of his parents sporting activities the night before. The hubs and I grilled him first thing this morning. I like to think of it as my Easter miracle.***