BloggingDangerously

Draft Card

I signed my husband up to coach baseball this spring.

I probably should have mentioned it to him before today.

I might have waited a little longer to tell him but the draft is tomorrow and I figured he should probably go.

We have two sons on the team - he HAD to coach - right?  Exactly.  Now can you please email him and tell him that since he's no longer speaking to me?

I don't know what he's so upset for, I printed out the roster and made notes beside each kids name for the draft.  Notes like, "For the love of God, do not draft this kid or you will kill him before the first game."

or,

"This is the kid from football. (You know what I mean)"

It got to the point that I just highlighted the kids he shouldn't pick - in BLACK (on black type.)

He said, "This probably isn't the most supportive coaching method out there."

I said, "I asked (our friend) last week if he had any tips for the draft and he told me, 'We used the theory that pitching is everything.'  Well, I went with the theory that you not killing these kids by the end of the season is everything."

He's still not talking to me, but I think he's beginning to see the logic in my reasoning.

Sex Homework: Do-over

If you were all so damaged and broken I would give you an F- on last week's sex homework.

And I say that without a trace of humor or wit or mirth.

At first I thought that you were just fucking with me and then when I realized that you were serious? I just wanted to cry.

You're alone.  In your bed.  And there's this man in your head with lust in his eyes and it's YOUR OWN fantasy and you STILL can't imagine that he wants you?

I'm sorry for whatever made you feel this way.  For whatever was done, or said.

But this is my blog.  And this is my borrowed fantasy.  And this guy is HOT.  And he WANTS YOU.

He walks up to you and stops a foot away.  You take a step toward him, closing half the distance.  He leans in.  You can feel his breath on your skin.  He smells like soap and leather. 

Your breathing quickens.  You've started to have second thoughts.  This isn't like you.

You think about turning away but he senses it and before you can move his lips are on yours and before you know what you're doing you're kissing him back.  His arms wrap around you and you lean into him...

...  I don't need you to leave a comment with what happens next but this IS a fantasy - on that you've borrowed from me - you can at least TRY to do it justice, right?

 

Doing My Wifely Duty

Last week I was superwoman: Business executrix extraordinaire, Uber-patient Mom of the Year, Dropping weight like a bad habit Dieter, You can't catch me Jillian Michaels Work-out ROCKSTAR.

And then Friday came and delivered a Kryptonite kick.

I did my best when I felt the tingle in the back of my throat.  I hucked up a wad of phlegm and went for a run.  I was slow but at least I was moving.

Momentum was the word of the day.  I finished my run strong, bounced into the house and up the stairs.  I showered, I dressed, I grabbed my purse and my daughter and we picked up pizza.

My pizza? Tomato and Broccolli - light cheese.

I was ROCKING that diet!  I was gonna be HOT! HOT! HOT!

Oh shit, I was hot.  102 degrees exactly.

The fever hit while I was waiting in line for the pizza.  I thought it was the ovens.  But no.

I came home, ate 3 slices and crawled up the stairs and into bed.  I seem to remember participating in #wineparty.  If I said anything strange I was delirious - not drunk - for a change.

The weekend passed.  I think.

Last night I started to feel human-ish again.  Except for the fierce burning in my lungs.

I crawled into bed.  It was cold.  ICE COLD.  Okay, maybe not ice cold but my husband had forgotten to turn on the bed.

So I did what any sweet, understanding wife DYING FROM PNEUMONIA would do - I took his side.

And despite the fact that I was a stuffy mess of convulsing, coughing germiness he shared his side with me.

UNTIL I experienced a particularly convulsive coughing fit.  And then he did what any loving husband would do - he felt me rubbing up against him convulsively and he got aroused.

SERIOUSLY.

Can you picture my husband if I had epilepsy?  "Honey, you just had a seizure. Are you okay? Yes? Okay, wanna do it?"

My husband is ACTUALLY much too clever to ask "Wanna do it?"  (This after repeatedly being told "NO, GO AWAY.")

He actually said, "I miss you.  Wanna do it?"

"I can't BREATHE." I said.

"So no blowjob." he agreed.

"That's not what I meant." I wheezed, reaching over to my side to see if it had thawed.  (It hadn't.)

"I'll help you out." I said.

I talked to him.  I told him what I liked best about our sexual experiences - the positions, the tempo, etc.  I started to tell him about an incident that I particularly enjoyed with him but as I could feel him getting "closer" to climax I trailed off - not wanting to distract him.   Then, to be honest, I started to fall asleep.  APPARENTLY my lack of assistance brought him back from the brink and we had to work up to it again, and again and again.  And then FINALLY, I was SURE he was THERE and he stopped.  "What happened?" I asked.

"I don't want to yet." he said.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?  I've got NAPALM in my lungs and I'm working on 5 hours of ragged, jagged, interrupted sleep and he wants to prolong the enjoyment of a handjob he's giving himself while I struggle to stay awake beside him?

No dice.

I realized that none of what was happening really required my participation so I rolled over onto my WARM side of the bed, snuggled down into my sheets and said, "Good night."

"Come on." he said.

"As far as I'm concerned I got you there." I told him.

WITHOUT my further encouragement the scene lasted about another 45 seconds and then we BOTH fell asleep.

 

 

I'm Wewy Good at this Game

Yesterday my allergies were killing me so I took some loratadine which only seemed to exacerbate the feeling of sand in my eyes.  So I asked a medical professional whether or not I could chase it with a shot of Zyrtec - and by medical professional I mean Twitter.

The concensus was "YES." "No." "Maybe."  "Yes, but you might get drowsy."  "No, but you can chase it with vodka to numb the pain." and "How the Fuck should I know I'm tweeting this from a phone I found on the floor of a crack house."

With professional advice like that how can you go wrong?  So I popped a Zyrtec and crawled into bed.

During my nap, my son woke me up twice to ask me where he could find an envelope so he could send a letter to Harry Potter.  I WOULD say that that means you shouldn't mix drugs but I'm pretty sure it actually happened.

I got up at five to make dinner and went down to the kitchen.  I reread the recipe and realized it was only going to take a few minutes to make.  Suddenly my daughters were all over the kitchen and in each others (and my) way.  So I tried to get them to play hide and seek but the counter counted to fast and found the hider too quickly which turned into a lot of arguing.

So I said, "You two count and I will hide."  So I left them in the kitchen counting while I ran down the hallway (away from the stairs) and then circled back through the foyer and tiptoed up the stairs - into my bedroom and up and over the leather overstuffed chair.  I folded my body in two and sat there hunched over on the floor.  Then I heard them yell, "Ready or not, here we come!"

I listened to their search downstairs - they hadn't heard me on the stairs.  Then they came upstairs and did a cursory search of my room, their rooms and the office and then went back downstairs. They asked their brother for help - and he quickly offered that he had seen me run down the hall so I COULD NOT be upstairs.  Throughout the search my 4 year old kept randomly yelling, "Mom, you're weawy good at this game."

15 minutes later and 4 close passes by my location my husband (and his growling stomach?) joined the search.  They decided to be more methodical.

My 4 yo, looked over the top of the chair and when I said, "Boo!" she jumped a mile and screamed in glee!

"I found her!" she said proudly.

And then "Mom, you're WEAWY good at that game!"

And my husband just hides in the bathroom - amateur!

 

Nice Try Soldier

When I met my husband ten years ago he lived in a hovel.  Seriously, it was DISGUSTING.  I REFUSED to sleep there because my side of the bed was completely matted down with dog hair.

They even had to tidy up before the cleaning lady came or she would walk in and walk out.

And my husband would talk about how spoiled I was and about how he could survive on next to nothing - and had, in the desert, during the WAR, when he couldn't even PEE when we wanted to.

Well, let me tell you.  That boy has gotten soft.

So soft, in fact that yesterday we actually argued yesterday about whether our 380 threadcount Egyptian Cotton sheets were soft enough or whether he should RUN RIGHT OUT and buy another pair of the $250, 500 threadcount sheets that recently ripped.

I won't tell you who thought that we should, but I'll give you a hint. I said no.

And when I said no?

He asked me, "Do you remember those pictures we saw on television?  With those soldiers in the desert lying in the hot sun?  Or lying in mud?"

"Thank you for your service." I told him. "Let me guess, while you were lying there in the mud you promised yourself that if you ever made it home alive you'd never let your princely ass touch anything less than 500 threadcount sheets?"

 "No," he said, sheepishly "but they are really comfy."