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.

Man of Many Surprises

Boo and my ten year anniversary is barreling down upon us like a baby buggy let loose on a hill. You would think after this many years of marriage and countless others mooning over one another, there would be very few surprises left to discover about one another.

After all, I know the man has the worst smelling gas which he enjoys storing up and letting loose in honor of being in my presence, generally in the marital bed.

He knows that I am the world's biggest bitch if you put mayonnaise on any food that I am preparing to eat. Especially sandwiches. I have been known to hurl a Subway sub at his head if I discover that gross white lard on my bread. Touching stuff...

I cry during the most inappropriate times, while he laughs uncomfortably like a hyena. He loves shoot 'em up movies and chick flicks. I love spaghetti westerns and British comedies.

He's a Ford man and I'm, well, I'm all about how cool a vehicle looks.

He likes all things vanilla, while I love the chocolate. I am a dipper while he is a scooper of dips. Somehow we make things work.

He's been home since Saturday night and the kids and I have hung on him like burrs on a dog. Yesterday he had to finally pick us off and kiss us goodbye. He will be gone for another month and this time, he will be too far away to rescue my sorry ass if the power goes out, the water runs dry or I drive myself into another ditch.

In other words, I better start wearing low-cut tops and making nice with the boys next door.

Boo hates leaving almost as much as we hate to see him go. It's always an emotional time, made worse with the knowledge that neither one of us are going to be completely happy until we have each other to pester, poke and ridicule once more.

Lately I have been pestering him for another pet. I'd like a cat for outside and a bird for the family room. He is adamant about no more pets. Apparently, Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog. Ever. is all the pet my man can handle. No amount of my whining or setting the kids upon him will loosen his resolve.

Yesterday, when he was on the road to his next hotel room, he called me and told me to go outside and check my driver seat. So I trundled off, curious to see what my husband left for me, half thinking it was a melted candy bar or the remnants of a Happy meal.

Instead, to my eternal joy and delight, was a picture of the newest members of my family, to arrive in ten days.

Meet Karen and George.










Front loading LG steam washer and dryer in candy apple red.

Definitely better than a bird. (But I'm still aiming for a cat.)

Birthday Delusions

It is my darling husband's birthday today. He is now 32 years old and in the prime of his life. As I like to remind him, it's all down hill from here. (I'm supportive like that.) Today is the day where I should write loving words about the man I married, and thank his mother for getting busy oh so long ago.

But I did that last year. Go read it if you need a refresher on redneck romance.

This year, I've decided to cut the crap, eliminate the mush and get straight to the point.

Happy Birthday Boo. I love you.

Since Boo is out of town, I'm not really busting a gut worrying about what to buy him for his birthday or whether my bush has been trimmed or the legs stripped of the small forest that likes to grow down there. All I really have to do is remember to phone him, sound sexy and talk dirty to him and I should have it made.

Got to love a birthday that easy.

So, first thing this morning, before even my morning java, (when my voice is at it's throatiest) I dialed up the hubby's number. And asked him what he wanted for his birthday.

His response? For me to drive down there and um, service him. After, of course, providing him with the birthday blow job.







Once I regained my breath from laughing at him, I told him it wasn't going to happen. I have appointments today (re: getting freshly inked), shopping to do (re: I need batteries for my battery operated buddy) and soccer starts tonight for Fric (re: discover if her coach is hot or not and/or a total flake.)

It simply wasn't going to happen. But I did offer to courier down a brand new bottle of lotion and a girly magazine. Just for his birthday.

My husband's response?

Not to bother. Once I win the Hottest Mommy Blogger contest, he will have my naked finery to oogle whenever he commands.

Keep dreaming, boyo.

Birthday wish or not, I'm not winning that particular contest. Check out the numbers as you stroke your birthday sausage. I'm killing you. It's going to take a whole lot more than you determined to see my naked arse out on the net. You'd need to muster up an army of computer geeks, tech junkies and bloggers.

But I love how you have such an imagination. While you're at it, why don't you imagine me and the Hot Asian Chick having a wrestling match in a pit of jello over your man meat.

It's my gift to you.