My Husband Is Willing to Sell My Soul

I'm not a spring lover. Of all the seasons, spring is my least favorite. In my neck of the woods, it is an ugly time of the year. The trees are still dormant, resembling twigs, the grass is brown, the roads are muddy and you never know if it is going to rain or snow. (My sympathies to those who are experiencing Mother Nature's wrath out east.)

There is one part of spring, however, that I enjoy. Soccer. Yes. I am indeed a soccer mom. Minus the minivan. I love getting out there with my latte in one hand and camera in the other and watching my children race all over the field trying to maim avoid the opponents who stand between them and the goal. And yes, you haven't really lived until you stand nose to nose with a power hungry 16 year old referee (who keeps looking at your tits and blows the call), yelling about his lame ass skills as a referee until he takes one last glance at your chest and ejects you from the game.




And you have to do the walk of shame. In front of thirty or more moms and dads. Who are either rolling their eyes at you or cheering you on. As the 16 year old ref checks out your ass as you slink away, with a smirk on his face. Not that I'd have any experience in that area or anything. Not me. Snicker.

I'm fairly competitive. Strike that. I'm insanely competitive. And so is my darling husband. We have likely passed that trait on to our offspring, but I don't feel bad about it. Sure we are the annoying people who yell at televised sports, as if the people in the little box can actually hear us, but dammit we are having fun.

I have managed to curb my competitive streak to sports. I learned a long time ago that it does NOT pay to be a competimommy, always comparing your child with another. Having a handicapped kid will beat that right out of you. So will having 11 nieces and nephew all the same age as your children.

I, in fact, find it hard to get riled up and feel competitive about anything other than sports. Oh, you make more money than God? Good for you. You're being nominated for a Pulitzer award? Kudos to you. You are going away on your third tropical vacation this year without your children...all expenses paid by your company? Fabulous. You just bought a pair of skinny jeans in size 0 and you have no muffin top? Well, fuck you. (Okay, maybe that last one gets me a little teeny-weeny bit jealous.)

Blog stats and awards are another thing that don't turn my crank. Sure, I love my comments, and every time I check my email I am hoping for an inbox that actually contains something other than the latest ploy to increase my penis size, but my day isn't wrecked if nobody comments. Or if my site meter remains remarkably unused.

I realized many moons ago that I am blogging for my own mental health, not to rule the world. (No matter what I write on the About Me page.) I am thrilled when I get positive feedback, or a private email, especially if someone tells me that I made their day, or they just lost a child and wondered if they were going to lose their minds too. Those emails, and comments are the ones that help me get through the moments that creep upon me every day when I realize my son is gone. Permanently. And there is no amount of wishing that will bring him back. Those emails and comments help dull that throbbing pain that threaten to topple me over every damn day.

The google perverts help too. At least I know that my words aren't fruitless. There are thousands of hairy-palmed men looking lick their own ears, while reading about mom boobs and fantasizing about having redneck sex, or ripping out some man's liver while using redneck lingo, who find me and my words and the relief I offer. In ways I'd rather not imagine.

My husband however, is not as passive about my blog. He has taken a keen interest in it, following my site meter and comment count more closely than the growth and development of his own children. This of course, surprises me to no end because I really didn't think the man could read. Who knew?

So when he found out I was nominated for not one, but two useless blog awards, he was over the moon. Apparently, all my hard work and creative juices have paid off for him. I have been validated in his eyes. Suddenly, it is no longer a sore spot if I spend my days blogging. Because somebody out there thinks I deserved a nod. (Other than him.)

But now he has developed a new obsession. Instead of monitoring my site meter he is stalking the blog awards page, keeping tabs on if I am moving up or down in the ranks. And he is taking it personally that I am not winning. He just doesn't understand that I don't have a shot in hell against the Dooces of the world.

I've tried explaining that my readership is significantly lower than those Queens of the blogging world, but he won't hear anything of it. (Got to love a man blinded by love.)

So he asked if he could post on my blog. Again. To which I responded with a big fat NO! Get your own damn blog. But in the interest of marital harmony, I did promise to pass along his words.

After checking out the contenders in the Hottest Mommy contest (queue eye rolling now), he has decided that the front runners have nothing on me. (He really doesn't give two shits about my nomination for Best Parenting Blog. He's not blind to the fact that I regularly let my children play unattended in the streets while forgetting to feed them.)

But Hottest Mommy Blogger feeds his ego. It reinforces the fact that he believes he made a good marital choice when he bent his knee and tethered his manparts to one woman for eternity. He could care less if I won a serious writing award or was offered a lucrative book deal (which I'm completely open to, hint, hint.) Just as long as the world thinks I'm hot.

I love the fact that he is so deep. Makes life so entertaining.

So he is taking it personally that the world hasn't fallen into line with his reasoning and voted me Hottest Mommy Blogger. (I can't stop rolling my eyes when I type that! Sheesh!) He would like to offer a challenge to all you google pervs, and men who unwittingly stumble upon my site, looking for um, parenting tips.

He has a bribe for you all. And because I am so confident in the ridiculous nature of said bribe, and because I know there are just NO way my numbers stack up against my contenders, I feel assured in passing along his challenge.

Because this, my dear friends, is a sure thing for me. There just aren't enough google pervs out there to make my husband's fantasy of having his wife win some meaningless blog award where I am crowned the Hottest Mommy Blogger (again with the eye rolling) come true.

But because I love him, and because I like to be proved right, and because this has now turned into a competition between the two of us, I will post his challenge.

My darling Boo, would like all of you to know that IF I win the Hottest Mommy Blogger bling, he will personally post the naked pictures I took for him a few months ago, so that the world can see just how "hot" I really am. Snicker.

And because I am so sure, SO ABSOLUTELY CONFIDENT that my husband, as sweet as he may be, is completely delusional, I have agreed to hand over the blog keys to make his dream come true.

Now, help a sister out and prove him wrong. Because I really don't want to see my naked white ass posted all over the net. For my brother and brother-in-law to see. Oh GAWD. And my Piano Man. He'll never cook for me again if he sees what's actually underneath my clothing.

Seriously.

I'm not sweating too terribly though. After all, there aren't too many people out there who want to see this aging, dimpled ass naked on the net.

Right?

A Promise is A Promise

To celebrate the fact that I KICKED some grey-haired, balding, over-worked, underpaid civil servant battle axe's ass, I'm going out tonight, with my girlfriends. The kids are being shuffled to the mother-in-laws and I'm putting on my dancing shoes.

It's a full fledged girl night tonight, and this girl is going to re-examine her love of Jose Cuervo and his fine product.

This was in fact, my husband's suggestion. And who am I to not listen to my husband, right? After all, I am nothing, if not a docile, loving, respectful wife who waits on her husband hand and foot and dotes on his every word. It would be wrong of me not to heed his suggestion.

BWHAHAHAHA!

The hubs phoned this morning to see what my day included and how I slept. (He's thoughtful that way.)

I told him I slept fine, which is the truth. I had naughty dreams of the new James Bond doing naughty things to naughty me. I slept fine. Ahem. Turns out, the husband had a naughty dream of his own. Featuring, of course, his hot Asian chick.

(I really have to meet this broad. Maybe she would induce me to have naughty dreams about her and then the hubs and I can bond over her....Not with her. ABOUT her. Sheesh.)

I casually mention that I'm going out with the chicks tonight as per his suggestion. "Where are you ladies going," he asked.

"I thought we'd head to that bar downtown and then head over to then nightclub with the great dance floor on 82nd."

A moment of silence, and then he asked what I would be wearing. "I don't know. I haven't given it much thought yet. Jeans and a pretty top, I guess."

(Of course I have given this thought. I know exactly what I'm going to be wearing. Duh.)

"You're gonna have the girls out tonight aren't you?"

"What do you mean? The girls? Of course, they are coming out. I'm not going out dancing alone. I'm not that big of a loser."

"No, not those girls. The girls on your chest." OOOOHHHHHH. Those girls.

"Well, they kind of go where ever I go, Boo. That is sort of part of the deal of being a chick."

"Very funny. I just wanted to know if you intended on bringing out the big guns tonight."

Yes, because my saggy A-cups are considered big guns by every man alive. Do you see why I married my sweet, delusional, handsome man?

"Don't worry, big guy. The girls will stay strapped in, and hidden under a tee shirt. I'm not going out to pick up men, just to blow off some steam."


"I wasn't worried. I just like to picture what you're wearing, that's all," he hastened to reassure me.

"Don't worry babe. I'm not going to wear anything that is remotely slutty."

"Well that sucks for my imagination, but I can't say I'm not relieved to hear it."

Are panties considered slutty? After all, I do have a promise to keep. And I don't want to break my word to my darling hubs.

Wink, wink.

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.***