His Bark is Louder than His Bite

When I married Boo, I made sure that no where in our vows were the words "obey." Why set myself up for failure?

I'm just not the type of girl who does very well at obeying. I'm not obedient. If that was a marital requirement of Boo's, he'd be better off getting a dog.

I'm no man's bitch. I'm an independent bitch.

That said, I try very hard to respect my husband's wishes, even when I don't agree with them. The man supports my arse and keeps me in Cheetos and boxed wine as I sit on my duff all day and surf the internet. I know better than to bite the hand that feeds me.

I like being a kept woman, and I love my sugar-daddy. 

Yet there are times when my husband lays down the law, puts his foot down and absolutely refuses to consider a request I've made. It happens so infrequently that I always blink with surprise when he revolts. The last time he refused a request of mine was a few years ago and it may have involved public intoxication and the possibility of bailing my ass out of the clink.

He is wise beyond his years.

However, this time, he had his head up his butt. He was being unreasonable. Stubborn for the sake of being difficult. Digging his heels in and ignoring the wishes and wants of every member of his family for his own personal motives.

I did the only thing I could think of. I over-rode his decision; blatantly disregarded his dictatorial commands and did what I wanted to for the sake of our family.

I brought home a new puppy.

Boo was pissed.

Meet Thatcher, Nixon's running mate.

My children are over the moon and Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, EVER, is still smiling. Of course, it helps that the new dog will be half his size, is dumber than a stump and has female parts. The perfect doggy girlfriend for my sweet Nixon.

My motives were completely selfish pure. Nixon looked lonely, my birdies had kicked the bucket and I am still waiting for an adoption to happen that is beginning to look as though it may be a pipe dream. My heart was over-flowing with love and I needed someone to slather that love all over.

Nixon may have been a tad over-excited.

A puppy was the perfect solution.

Not according to my husband. Who, for days has refused to acknowledge my sweet little mongrel's existence. He even threatened divorce and at one point thundered that it was him or the dog. He quickly backed down when I tossed a suitcase at his feet and told him to start packing.

Like me, she is no man's bitch.

In a moment of quiet, after I just finished buttering him up (read: gave him a treat, wink, wink,) I asked Boo what the big deal with another puppy was. Why he was so resistant to the sweet intoxication of puppy kisses and big brown eyes?

"I don't need another damn dog in my bed. One ass-licker is more than enough."

Thatcher, Boo's butt-licker in training.

Well, if that's all he was worried about, problem solved. My new little pup can just sleep with the kids.

Once he realized there would be no other farting, snoring, shedding little fur monsters fighting with him for the chance to sleep next to me, he calmed down. Enough that I even caught him petting my new pup and talking cute little puppy talk as he scratched her belly.

(Who's da sweetest liddle puppy wog in da whole wide world? Thatcher, dat's wight my widdle pwe-shush...)

Oh my sugar-daddy likes to talk tough. But when push comes to shove, he's all bark and no bite.

That said, I'm gonna take this as a hint that now isn't the time to artfully slip him the ole pinky finger in the throes of passion. If you know what I mean.

Wink, wink.

How do you not love a dog who sleeps on your shoulder?

Something's Growing Between Us

I wanted to be a doctor when I was growing up. I had big dreams of setting up shop in the middle of nowhere, delivering babies at the crack of dawn and being paid for my services with live chickens and smoked hams.

I watched a lot of Little House on the Prairie growing up.

It didn't take long for me to change my tune and adjust my dreams when I realized just how much time and hard work it would take to become a doctor of medicine, a saver of lives. At 17, the last thing I wanted to do was commit to another eight to ten years of schooling when I could easily buy a lap top and write internet porn to support myself.

(I'm totally kidding. Or at least I am if my MIL is reading this.)

One of the deciding factors in me not going to medical school was discovering how squeamish I was. While my own blood didn't bother me, anybody else's body fluids did. Immensely and disproportionately. I couldn't...can't handle the sight of anybody's wet and sticky substances leave their body.

It creeps me right out.

Which just made the fact that I gave birth to a handicapped child who liked to share is copious amounts of body fluid with me even more ironic.

I sucked up my distaste for blood, saliva, vomit, snot and what ever else leaked from Bug on an alarming frequency because I had to. Someone had to be the grownup in our relationship and my birth certificate demanded it be me.

I rose to the occasion and did what had to be done because he was my child and because quite simply, his life depended on it.

Yet, I've also been known to hide in the bathroom with my eyes tightly shut and humming "lalalalalala" as Fric and Frac come in to have a gaping wound fixed. "Go see your father! He's magical. He'll make it all better!"

Ya. My parental skills rocks.

Thankfully, there hasn't been many emergencies that would test my squeamish boundaries in all the time I have been a parent.

This doesn't mean I don't live in fear of said moments. Or that my children and my husband don't lie in wait to pull a prank on the pansy living in their midst.

Because there is nothing funnier than watching me turn sheet white, while running from the room saying "Don't show me, I don't want to see your blood!" as I go hide in a dark corner and berate myself for my weakness as my loved ones slowly bleed to death in my imagination.

Totally funny. Asshats.

Last night was one such prank. After spending a lovely romantic evening with my darling Boo, where he massaged my feet as we watched season one of Heroes, we decided to take our romance to a more private venue (behind our locked bedroom door) and do what married couples like to do when alone in the dark with a big bed at their disposal.

(I had forgotten how novel bedtime could be when one isn't simply crawling under the sheets alone with a fat hairy dog to fart in one's face for company.)

After a bout of nightly romance, Boo padded off to his bathroom while I luxuriated under our sheets, waiting for his return. I was half asleep when I felt the mattress shift as he slid into bed next to me.

"Tanis?" he whispered as his hand lightly rubbed my shoulder.

"Go away Boo. You already got lucky once tonight. Leave me alone," I complained as I shrugged his hand off me.

"Once is never enough," he purred in my ear as I slapped at his hand.

"Go to sleep and leave me alone," I groaned and buried my head into my pillow.

"I need you to feel something for me," he whispered.

"Boo, I'm not feeling anything for you. Go to bed," I commanded, getting more and more irritated with him with each second that ticked past. Sheesh. I mean I just got all bendy for that man. Didn't that earn me a free pass to sleep?

"Tanis. I'm serious. When I went to the bathroom I noticed a growth by my leg," he whispered worriedly.

That got my attention as visions of tumors danced before my eyes.

"What?" I half-whispered, half-shouted.

"Give me your hand, I need you to feel it and tell me if I should be worried," he said as he tried to grab my hand.

"No freaking way! I'm not touching it! Why didn't you say something earlier! Turn the light on so I can see!" I panicked while keeping my hands firmly at my side and away from his disgusting tumor.

"Just give me your hand so you can feel it. I don't know what to do!" he worried.

"I'm not touching it! Gross! I'll make a doctor's appointment for you first thing in the morning and the doctor can touch it," I offered.

"Just give me your hand. I'm worried," he said as he trapped my hand with one of his freakishly large mitts.

Squirming, I squealed "Don't make me touch it!!!" as he lowered my hand to the medical mystery under the sheets.

I just about passed out from the fear of feeling some disgusting large lump threatening to take my beloved's life when suddenly my hand landed on his growth. Funny, the growth felt like a penis, I thought, as I suddenly realized where he was going with all this growth talk.

He chuckled and crowed, "Ya. I went to the bathroom and discovered this growth by my leg. It won't go away."

Snatching my hand away from his love rod, I smacked him and told him just how funny I didn't think he was.

"You freaked me out! Don't mess with my head like that! You know I don't do well with stuff like that!" I whined.

Boo snuggled in closer to me and smiled. "Aw baby, don't be mad. It's just a testament to how fine you are that my manhood won't lie down and go to sleep with you next to me."

Said as he slapped his willy against my thigh, in the most romantic gesture ever.

"You're giving me a tumor," he giggled.

Only fair since he not only gave me a heart attack two seconds earlier, but was now inducing a massive headache due to sleep deprivation and annoyance.

I love my husband. Really.

"My love for you keeps growing," he snorted.

But sometimes a girl can go with out a tumor smacked upside her ass. Call me crazy but I think I can officially say the romance is dead.

"Come on baby, rub my lamp. The genie wants to come out of the bottle and play," he continued.

Good thing the humor between us is still er, growing.

Dancing On Tender Toes

This weekend, the hubs and I had the pleasure of attending a dear friend's wedding.

When I say pleasure, I mean I wobbled around in brand new killer heels until my feet were nothing more than shredded bloody stumps all the while trying to fight off my husband's drunken amorous attempts to convince me to have sex in the coat room while every one else nibbled on wedding cake.

As he so thoughtfully pointed out in a slurred voice, it'll get me off my feet at the very least. How does one resist such romantic thoughtfulness?

In general, I hate weddings. Not my own of course, but at my own wedding I was almost five months pregnant and my husband treated me like a fragile princess, catering to my every whim and desire while a hundred people paid homage to my beauty and the great love Boo and I share.





I was totally promising him a blowjob if he'd go buy me a cheeseburger.

At other peoples wedding, I am just some schlepp tottering about in shoes no woman has any business wearing while trying to remember to make sure her skirt isn't tucked into the back of her underwear after she goes to the bathroom.

My husband however, (bless him, he's a romantic sap,) loves weddings. He says he loves them because it reminds him of our great romance and makes him appreciate how blessed he is to have fallen in love with the most wonderful woman in the world.

I think he loves weddings because he knows he looks great in a suit and he can spend his time freely flirting with other women while feeling them up on the dance floor. It's a free pass to let his lecherous nature run rampant.

Either way, he's always the romantic dynamo of our duo while I quietly bitch about my feet, the food and that one broad who is obviously gunning for my man. Husband stealin' ho. Heh.

Because Boo and I have been married so long, we no longer feel the need to remain glued to one another's side as we mingle. This gives him the freedom to talk smack about his wife to the boys and make googly eyes at all the pretty ladies while I generally hide in the washroom or by the bar.

Circumstance and happen chance led us to the same place at the same time, where the bride was taking a quiet minute alone from her guests, absorbing her special day and probably freaking the fack out about hitching herself to one man for the rest of her life.

(Okay, that is totally just my editorial opinion. But it's my blog. Heh.)

The truth was, she was just then realizing she would no longer be the person she was the day before. Or at least, she would no longer carry the same name, the same identity. Now she was someone's wife, where before she had only ever been a girlfriend and a daddy's girl.

She was having trouble coming to terms with her new marital name. Not that there was anything wrong with it. It was a nice name. Nothing like Humpadick or such. It just wasn't the name she held dear to her heart and wore like a comfortable pair of shoes her entire life.

Boo, being old fashioned and logical, (I hate that about him sometimes. Completely annoys me with his rationality,) was quick to hug his dear friend and told her she was still the same person and she would be quick to embrace her new name and her new identity. He explained that what she was feeling was normal and would pass and the greatest honor a woman could do for the man she loved was take his name.

The bride, glowing with radiant beauty already, perked up at this, smiled and looked at me and asked if I agreed. If I thought that was true.

(I have to tell you, in the milliseconds that she stood there looking at me, waiting for my response, I'd rather have been stripped naked, tied to the back of a horse and dragged through a field of thorny cacti.)

I blinked and felt blood rush to my cheeks as I gulped and avoided making eye contact with my husband.

"Um, I guess so, sure, why not," I prattled on while hoping that someone, anyone would interrupt us and whisk me off to the dance floor. No such luck. Not another soul in sight. Because that's the way life facking works. When you need a knight in shining armour they are all too busy getting plastered at the open bar to come and save you from awkward questions.

"How long did it take you to get used to having a new last name?" the bride innocently inquired as my husband stood there drilling holes into my head with his laser beam eyes.

"Uh, well you see," I uncomfortably stammered, "I uh, never did change my name."

"Oh." The bride looked at Boo, waiting for his response.

Boo of course, took it as an invitation to jump on his soap box and lecture me before a captive audience, verbally lashing at me for years of prancing around with my maiden name.

"Like I said earlier, it is a true honor for a wife to take her husband's name. It shows how much she loves him and blah blah blah." I may have tuned him out having had this same lecture tossed at me for the duration of our eleven years of marriage.

The bride, being a graceful and sensitive soul, sensed my discomfort and offered to go refill my drink. I tried to go with her but Boo reached out and grabbed my arm, yanking me back to his side and almost tearing off my limb in the process.





Not really relevant to my story, but I liked the cartoon. Heh.

"Ow," I whined as I rubbed my arm.

"You once promised me you would change your name, Tanis. How long do I have to wait before that happens?"

I thought of being flip and snarky with him, but his big blue eyes stood looking at me, filled with curiosity and love and perhaps even a few flecks of disappointment. I decided to take another route. A more sincere route.

I stuck out my breasticles, batted my eyes and tried to look pathetic and torn. I hear men are suckers for that.

"I don't know Boo. But I said I will, and I mean it. I just need more time to get used to the idea."

He snorted and rolled his eyes. "Ya. Cuz eleven years is such a short time. Gimme a break."

Sensing this could quickly boil over into a full fledged argument, I leaned closer and breathed into his ear, "I will give you a break. But how 'bout I give you something else right now instead? Something a little more personal."

Boo is a smart man and knows when to shut up and smile. He smiled down at me and grinned.

And that's when I led him (like a horny little puppy dog) to the bar, shoved a beer in his hand and told him to drink up. Hopefully I could get him drunk enough to forget the whole damn thing. And I did. Heh.

Until the next wedding we have to attend.

I freaking hate weddings.

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So peoples, chime in. Did you change your name? For my three male readers, did you expect your wives to change their name? I've decided to let the internets settle this argument and see who's right or wrong.

Everyone knows everything you read on the interweb is true.

poll by twiigs.com