I am not a morning person. Besides waking up with breath so foul that even my dog buries his head in the covers to avoid having to inhale my scent, I am cranky, sore and tired. It comes with sleeping in a mattress that has seen better days. I have to be careful of where I sleep or I risk being impaled by a rogue spring. Of course, being shoved, scratched, and pawed at night does little to help restore my bright and shiney disposition. Nor does the occasional lick.

Which I might enjoy, if it was coming from my husband. However, my little rat of a dog is another story. I’ve decided Nixon, the World’s Greatest Dog, Ever. and I make mighty poor bedfellows. Especially when he manages to entangle a claw into the ole boob ring.

Which he did, again, last night.

F*#ker!

While nursing a sore nipple and a bad attitude I stumbled out of my lumpy bed and walked my aching ass to the coffee pot. I read somewhere that a shot of caffeine first thing in the morning is good for increasing the cheer in your dispostition for four to six hours. Just enough time for me to fully wake up and prevent myself from throttling my children. Who are running wild like imps while on spring break.

Coffee is the lifeblood for my children. It’s what has kept them alive all these years. Not food, water and shelter. Java.

As I’m sipping my coffee and trying to ignore the sounds of my children trying to kill each other wrestling in the living room, my hubs calls for our morning chat. He is just getting off night shift and is getting ready to crash for the day.

“Morning Boo. How was work?”

“It was okay. Boring. They had me bent over like a monkey humping a football all night long, so I think I’m gonna need a massage. I’m thinking of booking one of those special midget massages. Hee hee.”

Yawn. Gonna take more than a midget massage first thing in the morning to rile this wife up.

“That’s nice dear. Enjoy yourself. Ask them to use the hot oil so it penetrates the muscles.”

Clearly, I’ve confused him. That was not the reaction he was aiming for. “Um, okay. So, how did you sleep?”

“Not worth a damn. The dog had his ass in my nose the entire night long, and he kept letting out tiny little POOFS! He farts worse than you. And he got his claw in my ring again. Just about tore my boob right off.”

It’s at this point that my husband goes on his tirade about the damn dog and how he has no business sleeping in bed with me. Which I agree with, but remind him that since he’s not warming my body at night, the dog is the next best thing.

That or the neighbour boy. Which would he prefer?

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Then my darling husband drops a bomb on me.

“They fired the Hot Asian Chick yesterday. She blew off a shift and now I don’t have any friends up here.”

That got my attention. “Since when were you friends with her?” (How did she go from the hottie he ogled to friend?)

“Well, we started having coffee together while I waited for you to get up. Now I don’t have a coffee buddy.”

(Aww, that just breaks my heart, darling husband. I can’t tell you how tore up I am that you can’t sip your coffee while ogling the fresh meat in front of you.)

“Aw, that sucks. I guess you’ll just have to make a new friend. Any boys down there?” I ask.

“Nah, just the dudes I work with and we see enough of each other. I’m thinking of going on a friend finder and signing up to meet some people,” he says casually.

Suddenly, the coffee has kicked in and I’m at full attention.

“You mean an internet dating service?”

“Well, um, yeah,” he stutters, “but you can meet just friends to hang out with too.”

“And are we looking to meet boys or girls on this site?” He’s hearing the warning tone in my voice, but like a moth to a flame, he proceeds anyway.

Fool.

“Well, if I can meet a guy, great, but I doubt any guy is going to be looking for a coffee buddy. It will probably be a girl. But don’t worry, honey, it’s not like that.”

Sure. Doesn’t sound bad at all. My husband, my very attractive husband, is out of town, getting massaged by midgets and is now trolling for ladies on the net. Doesn’t worry me at all.

I remain silent, digesting this biting my tongue so hard it may start to bleed, so he blunders on. “It’s not like I’m looking to get any. I’ve got you and my bottle of lotion for that. I’m just looking to kill some time.”

How reassuring. I remain quiet.

“I need you to email me a picture so I can post it on my profile.” Yes, because he thinks I’m going to be a willing participant to his debauchery.

“Please?”

“Sure. No problem. I have just the picture for you. I’ll resize it and send it today.”

“Aw, babe, I knew you’d understand. And don’t worry. You know I love you. I’m just lonely and bored. Unless you want to come down…”

Somehow, I’m not in the mood to make that happen.

Besides, I have to dig up the nastiest, most bloated picture I can find of him. And then do some careful photoshopping. He he.

“Oh, and one more thing.” He must have brass balls by this point, I think to myself.

“What’s that, sugar?” (Again, he’s missing the DANGER!!! tone in my voice.)

“You’re not going to blog about this, are you? I don’t want people to think I’m gonna cheat on you or anything. I don’t want to take a beating on your blog.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to blog about today, honey,” I assure him.

Fuck right, I’m blogging about this. My husband is trolling for a girlfriend coffee buddy. If he’s worried about me painting him in a bad light, I have four words for him.

Get your own blog.

Now I have some photoshopping to do.