I can’t raise my arms.

You see, I have a small problem. It’s a hairy situation really, what with the forest of growth developing in the pits of darkness.

I’ve got furry armpits.

At first, it started off rather innocently. Read that as ‘shear laziness.’ (Pun intended.) Between having to bend over and contort to shave the nether regions and my gams, I simply ran out of energy one day while I was in the shower. So I left my pits for another day, thinking I’d get to them Eventually.

Then came the epic battle over razors. I keep buying them, and they keep disappearing. I hear this is the price one pays for having a teenaged girl. I don’t know what she does with them, but given the lack of body hair on her still developing body I have a strong suspicion she is stealing them and selling them on the black market to raise money for packs of bubble gum.

My daughter of course pleads innocent on all charges. Her defense? The razors must have grown legs and marched away looking for less hairy pastures to play in.

All I know is that every time I felt inspired to weed whack, there is no implement at hand and the pits stay forested.

Totally sexy right?

Not long after my own carpet arrived I read Schmutzie’s ode to the fuzzy wuzzies, and what can I say? I was inspired. These pits had a hall pass to freedom  because suddenly I wasn’t just lazy any more, I was fighting the repressing confines of pathological and  idiotic societal rules of decency.

I had flower power baby, all shooting out between the ever-lengthening hairs I hid beneath my arms. Or at least that’s what I told myself when I suddenly caught a glimpse of my new little shag rugs.

Days morphed into weeks and weeks have turned into months and still, Eventually has not yet arrived. Meanwhile my pit hair has continued to grow like a wild fire out of control.

Heck, at this rate I’m looking into beading the little suckers so that every time I shake my arms the sounds of music waft sweetly from underarms.

My husband thinks this is wholly unacceptable. He doesn’t understand why my legs are smooth and my nethers groomed, my pits remain an abomination. Apparently since I wax southern parts, I should wax the northern parts. I’ve told him the day he leans over and rips out his own armpit hair using nothing but his teeth is the day I will willingly sign up to have my pit hair waxed.

Until then, it’s free-range and nature at it’s very best under these arms.

Granola anyone?

I’m rebelling against a society husband that dictates that in order for me to be sexy I have to have silky smooth armpits. If Boo can walk around with wooly underarms and enough back hair to make a  grizzly bear envious and still be considered sexy, why not me?

I think he’s threatened by my follicular abilities, truth be told.

Ignore the dictates of society and embrace the undercarriage fluff I tell you. It’s freeing. Even if it is a little sweaty.

This is womanhood at it’s best hairiest. I mean what is sexier than seeing the deodorant ball up and form little white beads dangling on the end of the grass growing under a woman’s arms?

I’m taking a sabbatical from the war on fuzz and welcoming the pelt I’ve cultivated under my arms. That’s right, I’m saving the environment one razor at a time. I’m sacrificing tank tops and short sleeves all in the name of saving the world.

I’m doing this for you. You can thank me later.

Raise your hand if you’re with me.

Anyone?

This post has been brought to you against the wishes of my husband.

I should apologize to him.

But he stole my last razor.

My husband has one rule about my blogging our life.

Keep him off the internets.

Today, on our 13th wedding anniversary, I’m doing what I so often do. I’m disobeying him.

(In my defense, I was smart enough to make sure the word ‘obey’ appeared exactly no where in our wedding vows. I am many things, but obedient isn’t one of them.)

I want the world to see the man I married and to know how absolutely proud I am that I chose him.

And I want everyone to know how ridiculously grateful I am that you have kept me.

To the man I love more than words can adequately express, happy anniversary.

I love you.

Thank you for being my Boo.

I am a pet lover. I grew up in the city, in a house always filled with an assortment of cats, dogs, birds, bunnies and other small rodents. My parents let us children have a menagerie of animals to call our own. My childhood is filled with memories from raising (or ignoring) these small animals and I always vowed that when I had children, my kids would know the same joys and irritations.

Owning pets builds character, right?

My husband is not a pet lover. He’s a farmer. To him, the only reason to have animals is if they serve a purpose. If you have a dog it’s because you have cattle. If you have cats, it’s because you have a barn filled with mice. If you have cows it’s because you need milk or beef. The only good animal, in his mind, is one that does something other than scratch up your furniture or poop on your lawn.

Boo is most decidedly not a pet lover.

Which has led to some wee marital woes.

Especially when your tiny yappy dog has puppies on your pillow in the middle of the night.

Bygones, I say. I found home for all the puppies.

But cats, cats are the bane of my husband’s existence. He loathes cats. Oh sure, he likes a good barn cat, but only when they are in an actual barn and preferably if there is a dead mouse in it’s mouth.

If my husband could change one thing about me, it would be my affinity for small useless animals that purr.

Last spring, when I came home from spending three weeks in hospital with the Jumbster to discover a cat had given birth on my bed (only weeks after the dog had) he was less than pleased. Even if it did provide some entertaining blog fodder.

He shook his fist at the sky, growled at the cats, lectured me once more on why cats shouldn’t be in the house and then gathered up cat and kittens and shoved them outside.

I’m fairly certain you could hear my kids and my hearts breaking from a mile away. My husband, however, has a heart of stone.

Kitty hater.

Since that episode, much to my husband’s chagrin, not only has my dog given birth to another round of puppies on our bed, (Bob Barker is not beating down my door to be president of my fan club,) our cat snuck (and by snuck I mean I opened the front door and welcomed her in) gave birth to a new litter of love. On the couch. As my children watched.

It was science, yo. A learning experience. I call that some good parenting.

He calls it bad wife-ing.

Not only did one cat have a little of kittens on the very couch he likes to sprawl out on when he’s home, but another cat snuck into our closet and had a litter of kittens in our bedroom closet just days later. (I’m innocent on that one. I swear! I didn’t even know that cat was pregnant let alone welcoming life next to my very expensive leather pumps.)

You may say my husband’s head has exploded. Eight times over. Because that’s how many kittens I currently have running around my house.

Luckily for them (and for me) Boo has been mostly absent since their birth and has been unable to punt them into the great outdoors like he keeps threatening to.

Right now, as I type this, I have ten cats roaming my halls alongside my sweet sweet doggies. It’s a real love fest I tell ya.

Or it was up until a week ago. Suddenly, the kittens are no longer contained to their dark quarters. They are mobile and curious and under foot. I’ve got kittens every where.

I’ve got kittens on the couch.

I’ve got kittens in the window.

Kittens on my shoe.

Kittens in my shoe.

Kittens on papers.

Kittens in plants.

Heck, I’ve got kittens hiding under blankets, on beds, on chairs, in the dirty clothes, in the clean clothes, I’ve got kittens everywhere.

If there isn’t one pile of kittens here,

there are piles of kittens there.

I’ve got kittens playing,

kittens dancing,

and let’s face it, kittens laughing at me, every where I turn.

I got so annoyed with kitties all up in my grill, *I* punted them all outside.

Except they all just huddled outside the front door looking so darn pathetic while they sat there and shivered,  I let them all back in.

So I’m back to kitties everywhere. They’re even in Jumby’s hair for crying out loud.

It’s a good thing my husband is out of town. Otherwise I’m sure he’d punt me.

I know I need to put my big girl panties on and find homes for all my cats because let’s face it, I’m one meow short of being crowned the crazy cat lady of the county.

But I’m weak. I mean, who doesn’t love a puddy tat?

I mean, other than my husband, who says while he likes a good pu$$y just as much as the next man, he just prefers the type that don’t meow.

Beggars can’t be choosers, I keep telling him.

We pu$$ies need to stick together.

**Note: I know, I know, I do have to get the cats spayed and neutered. Both dogs have already been fixed, so to speak. The cats are next up once everyone is done nursing. The kittens will find homes, so no worries there. But the fact you are all such diligent pet owners totally rocks.***