The Welcome Wagon

My husband phoned last night to inform me he would be arriving home this afternoon, instead of tomorrow night.

I want to be excited, but I'm falling a little flat. He should arrive home before the children get off the school bus, which means....Well, in theory it means there is time for a little afternoon delight. It's been several weeks since I have had to pick up his dirty socks, sleep in the hollow of the bed, or watch him scratch his boyish parts. I should be ravenous for a little man-love. But I'm not. Because the moment he gets home, my honey-do list will be calling his name. After all, I have weeks of garbage bags out on the back deck, no wood for the fire place and most importantly, so much freaking snow in the yard that people are starting to think I am an abominable snow woman. (And they haven't even seen my legs to prove their theory.)

The reality of my hubs homecoming is more likely this:

Boo: " Honey, I'm home. Come give your man some love."

T: " Shhhh, you'll wake up The Worm. He's teething and acting like Lucifer himself this afternoon."

Boo: "Well, then we'll just have to have quiet love," said as he paws at me.

T: "Did you just walk on my clean floors with your muddy boots still on?"

Boo: "I've been saving myself for you ...."

T: "Wait, did you walk up the drive way? Did you not notice my car parked at the bottom, by the road, because our driveway has over two feet of snow in it? Do you know how hard it is to pack The Worm up that driveway with his diaper bag and food bag. He's over 25 pounds now!"

Boo: " Come here, let me give you a massage, I'll work out your kinks..."

T: "Could you please go blade the driveway so I could actually, oh, I don't know, drive up it."

Boo: "Now? I just got home?!"

T: "Even better. You're still wearing your boots and your jacket..."

Boo: mutters as he heads outside "Well, I'm fucked, but somehow it just doesn't feel right..."

Don't get me wrong, I plan on rewarding his good behaviour with a little naughty behaviour of my own. But a woman has her priorities. And nookie with the hubs, while still delightful, falls behind her nephew's afternoon nap and plowing the driveway, but still comes before oh, say, scrubbing the toilets and folding the laundry.

Now, if you will excuse me. I have to locate a chainsaw to hack away the forest growing on my tree stumps legs. I wouldn't want the hubs to know he married a Yeti.

On My Knees

When I first fell in love with my husband I was 15 years old. I had just spent the entire day busting my ass, building a pig pen (yes, really) with his cousin down the road. I spent all day nailing planks and dreaming of ways to see my darling Boo, when suddenly, he materialized out of thin air.

The flirting began, and before you knew it, I was cussing him out and trying to kill him. I called him a variety of names and hurled a hammer at his head, all the while our parents sat yards away, planning our future.

Of course, as anyone who plays ball with me could tell you, I really couldn't hit the broadside of a barn, so my darling Boo's noggin was safe from flying carpentry tools. Boo is no idiot though, he beat a hasty retreat and disappeared. I didn't know whether to be heart broken or relieved.

Just when I was about to give in to my teenage angst, the young and foolish Boo returned on horseback and swept me into his arms for our first real kiss. Boo was a believer in grand gestures and romance.

Then he got married.

And suddenly his grand gestures entail standing in front of me when I am sitting on the couch or at the computer and whipping out Mr. Pickle and letting me know he has something for me to suck on.

Or, if I mention I have a sore throat, he always let's me know he has a cure.

Classy and romantic. How did I get so lucky?

Before he abandoned me left to go to work this last time, we got into an age old argument. You know, the one where he wants to know why, when I'm sitting on the couch next to him watching the evening news, I can't simply lean over and um, provide him with a hummer.

After all, it's always ready to stand at attention, and according to my husband, would make the news so much more gratifying.

As a journalist, I always tell him the news is not supposed to be gratifying, but informative.

This of course led into a discussion about whether hummers where a dating activity only, a form of foreplay or a sexual activity all on it's own. Because apparently, according to my darling hubs, it's been so long since he's received one that he is reverting back into a prepubescent boy, dreaming of his ninth grade teacher and wondering how soft a woman's mouth really is. This of course, is not the complete truth. But it has made for some interesting discussions with my girlfriends. Apparently, I'm not the only wife on the block with a husband who feels that particular need is not being met.

So, like any good journalist, I took my enquiring mind out on the road and started asking questions. I was determined to find out whether I was saddled with the horniest husband in the world or whether my sexual appetite was lacking.

Turns out, my appetite is just fine. And my husband is not the most concupiscent. That particular honor must be bestowed upon my best friend Roxylynn's husband. Lucky her.

I learned something when I was snooping around, asking my perverted questions. One, I learned that I really have no shame boundaries. I will ask anyone pretty much anything. Two, my dad blushes like a school girl when I teased him about being able to take out his teeth and give my mom a gummer. Thirdly, all men wish we were horny little vacuum cleaners. Doesn't matter how much or how often they get it, they always want more.

Kind of like eating Chinese food. You can eat until your stuffed to the gills, and then an hour later you discover you are still hungry.

Of course, I learned other things, like the fact that some women enjoy the salty biproduct of a successfully rendered job. And for those who don't, apparently eating pineapple can help. (The men eat the pineapple, the women just, well, suck.) I learned the etiquette of spit or swallow. Who knew there was such a thing. Turns out most men really don't care, as long as they have a woman in the nether regions willing to drool and get lock-jaw for him.

I also heard hummer horror stories. If I was writing for Penthouse, I'd tell you about some of them, but let's face it, I've already attracted enough pervs with the whole spit or swallow sentence.

Boo has decided my indifference to this particular playtime activity stems from our teenagedom, and my sexual insecurities as a young woman.

Me, I just think, I have better things in life to chew suck on.

But I promise darling, when you get home, I'll be down on my knees, waiting for you.

Of course, I'll be scrubbing my continually dirty floors, but I will be down on my knees...

'Tis the Season

With the Christmas season fast approaching, that means one thing.

Well, I suppose it means more than one thing, but for the purposes of this post, just roll with me people. Thanks.

With the Christmas season fast approaching, that means one thing.

Decorations. From the day after Thanksgiving (and for us Canucks that means mid-October) the holiday decorations go up in all the stores and malls. Every where you look you see the sparkle and twinkle of this holiday season. Which, for me, means that I am unable to take my children anywhere during this time.

Because what ten and nine year old do you know who needs more encouragement to get excited about the prospect of ripping open parcels on a cold winter's morning, while gorging themselves on vast amounts of chocolates and other assorted goodies, all in the name of the season?

Certainly, not mine. Which means whenever I need to take them out in public with me, I have to put a paper bag over their heads. Kidding. I only wish I could put the paper bag over their heads. (And duct tape over their mouths sometimes too, but my therapist and the police tell me this is a bad thing...)

I digress.

In our house, the decorations go up on Dec. 1. Regardless of temperature, blizzards, or general apathy, the tinsel is tossed the first day of December. My kids can count on this the same way they can count on the sun rising in the east and their mother looking like a hideous hag with a matching disposition every morning.

Which means digging out the damn decorations. Which, of course, are stored outside in a shed, buried underneath an assortment of crap that my darling husband has managed to toss on top of the boxes during the course of the year.

This is my husband's favorite job, every year. (Sarcasm, dear internet.) He absolutely loves having to pack in a seemingly endless parade of Rubbermaid containers and cardboard boxes. He manages to make it so fun, what with all his colorful cussing and boundless bitching. Once he dumps all the boxes in our front foyer, he then heads for the hills. Where it is safer for him; for by this time, I have had enough of whining and I'm generally ready to hurt him.

All in the name of the Christmas spirit, of course.

So last night, as I casually mentioned it was once again that time of year as we were cuddling on the couch, I was mentally prepared for the barrage of bad words and negativity I felt sure I was to encounter.

However, my darling Boo decided to shake things up a bit. Put some spice in our marriage. Toss me a curve ball...I could go on, but in the interest of brevity, I think you get my point.

Instead of acting like a whiny two year old coming off a sugar high and in desperate need of a nap, he pleasantly commented that he couldn't wait for the Christmas decorations to go up.

Startled, (and I admit, a bit pleasantly surprised) I asked him why.

(Cue the dumbass card now, folks.)

His response:

Because every time I put up the decorations, I clean the house afterwards. And it's getting a bit dusty. If I hadn't noticed.

Don't worry, dear internet. I didn't maim him. Although, no jury would find me guilty after that remark and my years of wiping up his pee splatter and picking up his dirty socks for him.

No, I just did what any good wife would do.

I went to bed and dreamt of Clive Owen. Dusting my house. While wearing a Santa's cap and sporting strategically placed tinsel...

Thanks Boo. That was just the type of encouragement I needed to get in the festive spirit.