A Little Poke
/I love my husband very much. Why else would I choose to stay shackled to him, his smelly armpits, his inability to put dirty socks in the hamper and his fondness of dutch ovens?
(Besides the fact that he's also handsome, kind, loving and a major breadwinner who doesn't mind the fact that I sit at home, spend his money and then whine to him through all hours of the day.)
I'm no dummy. I know when I've got it good. And I've got it very, very, good.
(I'm not just saying this since my home, neighbourhood and very airspace will be invaded by his side of the family this weekend for their very large family reunion. Promise. Pinky swear.)
There is one thing that bugs me about my darling husband. The fact that he likes to tease, poke, bug and generally get under my skin. He can aggravate me like no other. For years I have suffered at his merciless teasing, while searching for a way topiss him off strike back.
I've wandered aimlessly around this desert known as marriage, hoping for a trick to pull on him. I've tried pranks, and gags, and tickle torture; nothing works on this man. He refuses to get riled up. He just shrugs everything off and then chases me around to pull on my toes and tickle me until I pee.
(Sad but true. In my defence, I've squeezed out three watermelon sized children and my bladder has been the birthing victim in all three stories.)
Finally, after ten years of searching, I have found the one thing that ruffles his feathers.
Tattoos.
My love of inked skin does nothing but irk him. A good wife would consider this and abandon her ideas of defacing her porcelain skin.
However, no one could ever accuse me of being a good wife. Wink, wink.
So it was with great merriment and glee that I abandoned my groaning husband, stole his bank card and went off to the tattoo parlour. (Where they are becoming very fond of the sight of me and my husband's money.)
"Why?" he groaned into the phone after the deed was done. "Why did you do it? What's it stand for? More to the point, how much did it cost me?"
Poor Boo. He hasn't yet realized that one cannot put a price tag on quality. Especially quality tattoos meant to annoy one's husband.
"I did it because I had a blank piece of skin that looked like a canvass to me, darling. I did it because yesterday is my history, tomorrow is my future and today is my present. I did it because I want our children to know that it is okay to be different and to express oneself however they choose. I did it to demonstrate to the world that beauty comes in all shapes, and sizes and forms, not just Hollywood's idea of beauty, I did it..."
"You did it to piss me off."
"Well, ya, that too. Did it work?" Damn, he's smarter than he looks.
Just wait till he sees my next tattoo. I'm gonna get "Boo's Bitch" tattooed right over my pube line. And surprise him with it the next time he comes home from working out of town.
It's good to be me.
On my left wrist. And he's only a little annoyed. I'm gonna have to try harder.
(Besides the fact that he's also handsome, kind, loving and a major breadwinner who doesn't mind the fact that I sit at home, spend his money and then whine to him through all hours of the day.)
I'm no dummy. I know when I've got it good. And I've got it very, very, good.
(I'm not just saying this since my home, neighbourhood and very airspace will be invaded by his side of the family this weekend for their very large family reunion. Promise. Pinky swear.)
There is one thing that bugs me about my darling husband. The fact that he likes to tease, poke, bug and generally get under my skin. He can aggravate me like no other. For years I have suffered at his merciless teasing, while searching for a way to
I've wandered aimlessly around this desert known as marriage, hoping for a trick to pull on him. I've tried pranks, and gags, and tickle torture; nothing works on this man. He refuses to get riled up. He just shrugs everything off and then chases me around to pull on my toes and tickle me until I pee.
(Sad but true. In my defence, I've squeezed out three watermelon sized children and my bladder has been the birthing victim in all three stories.)
Finally, after ten years of searching, I have found the one thing that ruffles his feathers.
Tattoos.
My love of inked skin does nothing but irk him. A good wife would consider this and abandon her ideas of defacing her porcelain skin.
However, no one could ever accuse me of being a good wife. Wink, wink.
So it was with great merriment and glee that I abandoned my groaning husband, stole his bank card and went off to the tattoo parlour. (Where they are becoming very fond of the sight of me and my husband's money.)
"Why?" he groaned into the phone after the deed was done. "Why did you do it? What's it stand for? More to the point, how much did it cost me?"
Poor Boo. He hasn't yet realized that one cannot put a price tag on quality. Especially quality tattoos meant to annoy one's husband.
"I did it because I had a blank piece of skin that looked like a canvass to me, darling. I did it because yesterday is my history, tomorrow is my future and today is my present. I did it because I want our children to know that it is okay to be different and to express oneself however they choose. I did it to demonstrate to the world that beauty comes in all shapes, and sizes and forms, not just Hollywood's idea of beauty, I did it..."
"You did it to piss me off."
"Well, ya, that too. Did it work?" Damn, he's smarter than he looks.
Just wait till he sees my next tattoo. I'm gonna get "Boo's Bitch" tattooed right over my pube line. And surprise him with it the next time he comes home from working out of town.
It's good to be me.