***Updated Below***

Generally, when my darling hubs is out of town, our only communication tends to be the brief phone calls that occur when I wake up in the morning and when he wakes up in the late afternoon. Our conversations tend to consist of “How did you sleep?”, “The kids are driving me batshit crazy!!!”, “Did you see that hot Asian chick again today?”, “How much did you spend on supper? You think we’re made of money????” and my personal favorite, “Do you miss me?”

(Of course I miss you, darling. What between cleaning up dog shit, chasing after your kids and the tracks they like to make when ever they come through the door, trying to decide what to feed those children so they don’t wilt away and ruin our chances at adopting a new one, keeping your family informed about your whereabouts, and generally just living the life of a single mother, I have nothing but time on my hands to jones for you, your smelly feet and the untold amounts of laundry that seem to follow you whenever you land on my door step.)

Yes, our phone calls are nothing, if not romantic. But the current job the hubs is busting his arse on, has a perk. (Besides the hot Asian chick he gets to ogle every day.)

He has Internet access.

While I like to tease him to stay off the porn sites, I know that he is much too tired to engage in that type of debauchery. Instead, before he crawls into bed to dream of the hot Asian chick his beautiful wife, he checks his email and reads my blog.

Understand, this is a big deal. My husband is not a reader. When he is home he likes to sit on the sofa next to the computer and have me narrate my posts when I’ve finished them. I read them aloud and wait for the typical eye-rolling that accompanies once I’ve finished.

(See what you taught your daughter Boo? She got that lovely trick from YOU.)

He has even taking to posting responses to some of my posts. So if you see a Boo in the comments, (you’ll know it’s him by his grammatical and spelling errors), say hello. He’s watching you.

The other morning, just after I stumbled out of bed and pried my children out of their warm soft beds with a jarring “GOOD MORNING!!!” (uttered in a loud, annoying sing song voice) while flicking on their overhead lights, but before my morning cup of java, my husband called.

“I just read your post, love.”

Yawn and stretch. “Good morning to you too, Boo. Which post would that be?”

“The one where you speak so eloquently about your vagina.”

“You mean the one where I mention how it was torn and tattered by your lovely children -” Hurry up you two! You’re gonna miss the bus, and if you think I’m driving you, you’ve got noodles for brains! “- That one? The one where I mention my monstrous hemorrhoid?”

“Ya, that one.”

“You liked that, did you? I was particularly pleased with it myself.”

“Um, no,” he said dryly. “It was a little descriptive.”

“Which part? The part about my vagina or the part about my hemorrhoid?” Now I’m confused and somewhat irritated and desperately needing my caffeine fix. Meanwhile, the children are arguing over how many scoops of sugar to dump over their cornflakes and my right eye has developed a sudden twitch.

“Both. It was a little graphic, don’t you think?”

“Are you kidding me? Don’t you remember what my vagina and ass-end looked like after I squeezed those suckers out? I thought I understated the truth!”

“You do realize my aunt and uncle read this blog!?”

“No, I didn’t. Are you asking me to censor myself so you’ll feel more comfortable when you read my work?” Un-freaking-believable! Of all the mornings for my damn coffee maker to take it’s sweet ass time percolating my fix.

“Well, I don’t want you to censor yourself, just maybe, not write so graphically. Or descriptively. Or mention your vagina, your boobs, or any part of your body that needs to be covered while out in public.”

“Wait a second, are we talking about the uncle who asks if you need a pussy poultice whenever you get a boo boo?”

The kids are now arguing over who gets the last raspberry yogurt tube, Nixon the World’s Greatest Dog, Ever. keeps jumping up on my leg, begging for attention and my fu*%king coffee still isn’t ready.

“Yeah. Him.”

“I’m going to pretend we didn’t just have this conversation and you aren’t going to mention censorship around me, ever again, before 8 am. Deal?” My tone is more than a little annoyed, and my children were almost blinded by the DANGER!!! sign flashing above my head.

My husband must have seen the light, so he quickly changed the subject.

“So do ya miss me?”

***My darling husband is mortified and flattered all at once that you all have taken the time to drop him a line in the comments. Try not to be too nice to him though. His head will swell up like some helium balloon and his ego is already monstrous.

Oh, and hello to his aunt and uncle if they’re reading this. I love you!***