The Art of Wooing

There was a time when I would see my husband and all I could think of was all the naughty things I would do to him, things that would make my momma blush and my father race out to buy me a chastity belt.

Ahh, those were the days. We were young, in love and fornicating like two bunnies in heat.

Now, when I lay eyes on my husband all I can think about is my 'honey do' list waiting for him on the fridge and wondering if he'll actually be able to cross off an item while he's at home.

It seems I am more interested with what my husband can do around the house while he's home than I am in fulfilling my official spousal duties to 'do' him.

Really, the man's life is hard. Or so he keeps reminding me every minute of the day.

It's not that our romance is dead and we are living a life devoid of passion and heat. It's more like, after eleven years of marriage, three kids and a mortgage later, my darling Boo has forgotten the fine art of wooing his lady and mistakenly expects me to mattress dance with him just because I'm legally obligated to.

Screw that.

Heh.

Like many mothers and wives out there, all I want is a little romance.







Would it really hurt him to tell me I look beautiful even if my muffin top is hanging over the edge of my mom jeans and I've forgotten to shave my underarms and the hair is peaking out while I chase after the kids wearing a sweaty stained tank top?

Would he really die if he had to actually put his dirty dishes in the sink instead of leaving them by the computer or on the coffee table? Where does it say in the book of life that menfolk will turn to a pillar of salt if they have to wash a dish or wipe out a toilet bowl?

My husband doesn't get that when I ask him to bring me home something special after he's been away working, I'm not referring to a big ass duffel bag stuffed full with his skeevy underwear and smelly socks.

He just doesn't understand why I'm not racing to greet him wearing nothing but my birthday suit and a sexy smile when he comes home and drops that big bag of rancid clothing at my feet. Nothing says foreplay like sorting his whites from his darks while I'm butt naked.

Oh yeah. I'm getting hot just thinking about it.

Yes, my beautiful and darling husband has forgotten about all the times he'd try his hand at romance by bringing me flowers or whisking me away for a romantic picnic where he'd feed me grapes and rub my feet.

Now the only time I eat grapes are the times I'm tossing them at my children's mouths and seeing if they can catch them.

(Frac is definitely more skilled at this than his sister.)

To be fair, my husband isn't the only one who has turned his back on the fine art of romance. It's not like I bend over and give him head on a moments notice just to see him smile anymore.

As my husband thoughtfully pointed out recently, I can't even remember what baby gravy tastes like anymore.

Funny, I can't shake this nagging feeling telling me I'm not missing out on anything by not remembering. Except for seeing my husband's spontaneous smile. Which I now know I can illicit just by making farting noises with my armpit.

Hell, if I had known that ten years ago I could have saved myself hours of lock jaw and drooling all over my chin. Heh.

So we aren't the most romantic couple to walk the earth. I can live with that. Hell, I can not only live with that, but I will celebrate that. The fact that we can see each other naked after more than a decade of marriage and not double over with laughter or run screaming from the room, is a true testament of our love.

Three kids, some stretch marks and a few pounds between the two of us and let me just tell you, we are HAWT.

I think the real romance in our relationship is derived not by the smoke generated from between the sheets but our unrelenting willingness to forgive one another and still get naked and bump uglies with each other.

Proven just this past weekend when I got out of the shower and stood in my bathroom, naked and troweling on my makeup.

Boo had only arrived home hours earlier, in the dead of the night while I was sound asleep. My lovely husband was feeling a little annoyed that he'd been home for a grand total of ten hours and he still hadn't seen any marital action other than me nagging at him to pick up his socks.

As he pouted to me about this while I got ready in the bathroom, I ignored him. I don't know where my husband get's this mistaken delusion that I just live to jump up and down on the end of his man-stick at a moment's notice.

"You don't even care I'm home," he pouted as I applied my eyeliner.

"Of course I do," I stopped and put my eyeliner down and looked at him. "Who else would take the garbage to the dump and put the mower attachment on the lawn tractor? I'm THRILLED you are home." I smiled at him and then went back to putting on my makeup.

"Very funny, Tanis. But that isn't exactly what I meant." If his bottom lip stuck out any further I'd have mistaken him for my three year old nephew.

"You didn't even notice I got a haircut just for you."

I looked at him and noticed his new do. He did look kinda cute. Still, I wasn't going to make this easy for him.

"Oh please. You had to get a haircut for work. I cared so much that you are home that I showered for you."

"Ya. I'm sure your shower had nothing to do with the waft of green noxious gas emanating from you and was all about me coming home," Boo grinned.

"Ya, well, I shaved my legs for you!"

"Pfft!" He rolled his eyes. "I shaved my beard for you."

"I plucked my eyebrows for you!"

"Hey, I trimmed my toenails for you and nothing says romance like a guy using the toenail clippers."

Damn. He was right.

I was determined not to let him win this match of "Who loves who more." The competitive bitch inside me demanded a victory.

I looked him square in the eyes, stood up straight and pushed my boobs out as far as they could proudly go. Nothing like distracting a man from imminent victory with a little naked titties in his face, I thought.

"Oh yeah? Well, I plucked my nipple hairs just for you and if that doesn't say love, I don't know what does," I smugly lied.

Top that, Boo, I thought to myself.

Boo leaned over and I thought victory was mine. I thought he was going in for a kiss.

Turns out he was just going in for a closer inspection.

Ogling my boobs adorned with their shiny bling, he looked up at me and said, "Next time try harder. You missed a few hairs."

Then he sauntered out laughing.

I spent the next fifteen minutes performing a self breast exam and looking for any hairs.

It was marital foreplay at it's finest.

Well played Boo. And I was worried our romance was dead.

The Word of the Day is FORGIVENESS

In ten days I will have been married for eleven years. I have been looking at the same dirty socks strewn about for over a decade. I have been nagging at the same man to pick his wet towel off the bathroom floor for 4015 days.

Not that I've been counting or anything. I'm just really good at arithmetic at the top of my head.

Heh.

During these eleven years of wedded bliss *twitch* I have learned a thing or two.

Thing one: Boo has vile gas when he eats cheese. He loves cheese. He eats a lot of cheese. Consequently, I have no nasal hairs left as they have been singed off by the wickedly foul odors he likes to emanate in my direction.

Thing two: If you don't keep score, no one can lose at the game of marriage.

I've learned a few other things along the way, like how a grown man needs constant nagging reminding to cut his facking toenails yet will always remember to when he runs out of beer. I've learned how nothing will deter a man from constantly grabbing at your funbags of love, not even having to roll up the ole beavertails to stuff them into your bra after your wondertitties have been sucked dry by the vampires you call children.

But no marital lesson has been as important as learning how to forgive and move on.

Which isn't always easy. Especially when you are nine months pregnant, having gained over a 100 pounds, can barely fit behind the wheel of your van to drive to buy milk for your toddler demon spawn and all you can dream about is that last bit of mint chocolate chip ice cream waiting for you to lovingly devour when you finally arrive back home, only to find an empty container and a spoon sitting inside of it while your husband is burping up minty fresh breath.

It took a while, but I finally forgave and moved on.







It's not always been easy but I have learned the fine art of forgiveness. Let's face it, eleven years of marriage has given me many an opportunity to practice this art.

Like the time Boo gave me a can of tuna and a chocolate bar for my 26th birthday.

Or the time he gave me a shop vac for our anniversary. I wasn't bitter. Not at all. Not even after having scrimped and saved to buy him the set of golf clubs he had coveted only to receive a vacuum for HIM to use in HIS shop.

Forgiveness allowed me to move on and not wrap said golf clubs around his neck.

I forgave you, Boo, for the time you laughingly told everyone that I was caught picking my underwear out of my arse by your boss. I forgave you for the time you announced to your family that I had to go shopping for new jeans because "the ole girl is finally filling out and putting on some weight."

It wasn't easy, but I forgave you.

I learned how to forgive him for making us chronically late for every family function we've attended in the last eleven years because of his incessant and annoying need to 'finish the next level' of what ever video game he was playing while I run around like a mad woman trying to get myself and the kids ready to leave.

I even forgave him for running out of gas when I was in labour with our son Bug. Sure my contractions were less than a minute apart. I understood how he may have simply forgot to fill up the family vehicle the night before I went into labour after I politely nagged reminded him we needed gas. He was dealing with a hormonal, bitchy cow and was distracted by my girth.

I even forgave him while he chatted up a storm with the gas station attendant while I had to squeeze my legs shut in order to prevent giving birth in the front seat of our van while he laughed about outrageous gas prices and how ridiculous it was to run out of gas while your wife was eight centimeters dilated and her contractions were coming every twenty seconds.

We made it to the hospital. Barely. So what if Bug just about fell on his head onto the floor. I forgave you, Boo.

I have grown to be a better person than I would have been if I hadn't got knocked up married him. He taught me how to laugh it off and move on.

Even when he forgets to put down the toilet seat thereby ensuring my ass will take a dip in the icy waters of the porcelain throne as I fumble in the darkness to relieve my now stretched and damaged bladder in the middle of the night.

It's not always been easy. I still don't understand how I can send him to the grocery store with a list and he still manages to forget items that are clearly marked and underlined on the list clutched in his hands. Items necessary to the happiness and survival of his self family members. Items like toilet paper.

I forgive you, Boo, even though I know you will do it again. And again. And again. Because clearly, this is NOT your fault.

I love him. And I know he loves me. Even when he brings home monstrosities like my darling Bertha and then runs away with his tail tucked between his legs leaving me to look at the piece of shat rust bucket sitting in our yard, advertising to the world that we are the neighbourhood's token rednecks, I forgive him.

I know you meant well. You did your best. Even if you and I have a different definition of what your best really means.

I forgive you, Boo.

Eleven years have brought about a lot of forgiveness. Not that I'm tracking it or keeping score. That would be wrong. I just want to let him know that I will always forgive him. Even when he accidentally flips over our brand new lawn tractor because he was drag racing it with his buddy.

I love you and I forgive you Boo.

Remember this when I tell you about a little accident I may have had the other day involving our atv and my car. Try and remember how much I love you and all the times I have forgiven you for misdeeds, no matter the cost to our bank book, my pride or my abused uterus.

Keep in mind that while I was cleaning our yard up and doing chores that should, by nature, fall under your pervue, I may have had a little more fun than I intended with our quad. I may have gotten carried away and in so, accidentally bumped into my car with our quad while driving in reverse.





It's not so bad. Just a little dent. Don't flip out. It's all about FORGIVENESS.

It wasn't my fault. Accidents happen. I wasn't showing off for our kids and my friend fooling around. I was working. It had nothing to do with the fact I was laughing my arse off and not paying attention to what was around me.

It was an accident. Expensive, perhaps but an accident nonetheless.





So it's a bit bigger than I thought. But the camera adds ten pounds and a broken side mirror. Heh. FORGIVENESS.

The important thing for you to remember is no one was hurt and cars can be fixed. It's just money after all. Isn't that why you work out of town?

Don't worry Boo. No matter what I will always forgive you.

Even if you flip out when you read this and see what I did.

I forgive you.

Here's a Hint

I look forward to Boo coming home. Really, I do. It's nice to have a man around to hold me take out the garbage.

But now that he's home, I wouldn't mind seeing the tail lights of his car drive down my driveway as he hits the road.

My loving husband is driving me nuts.

Between fighting him off every two seconds last night as he groped for my boobs, putting up with his perpetual requests for a blowjob and having to defend myself as to why there were no towels in the bathroom when he got out of the shower, I'm ready to be a semi-single mother once again.

I mean, dude. Really. It's not like there were no clean towels. It was just that I forgot to put them away after washing, drying and folding them. They were sitting neatly folded on top of the dryer which you would have noticed when you walked into the laundry room to toss your dirty clothes on the floor (instead of the hamper neatly sitting two feet away) had you opened your eyes.

Or stopped thinking of blowjobs for all of two seconds.

Please don't hold me responsible for the lack of butter in the house. I don't cook. How the hell should I know if we don't have any butter? Or milk. (Heh.)

There was beer. That ought to count for something. I should get points for thinking of you.

When I asked what you wanted for your belated birthday supper and you waggled your eyebrows and said a love taco, I thought you meant MEXICAN food. Not sex. Sheesh.

Don't be mad at me just because as you pulled down your pants to hang your willy in my face and made lewd comments about having something good to suck on your daughter walked in. I was on the couch trying to read blogs and ignore the tube steak being waved in front of my nose. I didn't ask you to tug the Pickle out to play show and tell.

Keep your snake in the grass so I don't have to lie to your daughter and tell her you were just showing me how your zipper keeps slipping down.







When your son asks if I want to play with his brand new juggling balls that is not an invitation to grin like a mad man and offer me your balls to play with.

I don't know if you know this, but our kids, they aren't two and three anymore. They are growing up. They know what you mean. They are starting to figure out that their parents are perverts.

This is my polite way of telling you that you need to stop threatening to tie me up and spank me for being such a naughty girl when our kids are hanging on our every word.

With my luck one of our beloved demon spawn is going to start prattling on to his or her teacher about how their daddy likes to punish their mommy in the bedroom.

I've already got a reputation. Let's not add to it shall we?

And when I ask you to pick up strawberries, ice cream and some whipping cream it is for the cake I baked for your birthday. It is not an summons for seduction and sex games thirty minutes before our dinner guests are scheduled to arrive.

Unless of course you are offering to scrub out the guest toilet and quickly vacuum so they don't know we are sloths. Then I may be inclined to show my gratitude in a horizontal position.

But you didn't offer. Too bad for you.

I love my husband. Really, I do. But somehow he seems to have mistakenly confused me for some local nymphomaniac porn star while he was away at work.

Twenty four more hours and then I'm home alone again.

It seems like an eternity.

Damn I suck as a wife.

Just not in the way Boo would like.