*Warning: This post contains graphic language and may not be suitable for any one with a heart condition, a stick up their rectum or is in any way related to my husband. Read at your own risk.*

Dear husband,

While I love you deeply and deeper with every breath I draw (for reasons that just don’t include your weekly ability to pad my pockets and line our bank account or the fact you have a rock hard ass that every woman should be able to ogle just once in their life for the sheer eye-orgy it provides) I need to tell you something.

Something you may not want to hear.

But first I need you to know that you are a fantastic husband. You work your tail off to support your family, you chase our kids around and make them squeal with laughter and you have been known to do the dishes or vacuum without me ever asking you to.

I couldn’t ask for a better life partner to snuggle up to at night. You even let me stick my icy cold feet in between your deliciously warm legs to heat up my toes and you never complain. That right there is a demonstration of love. True love.

So when you come home after being gone for weeks at a time and want nothing more than to pour yourself a stiff drink, sit on your couch, watch your wide screen t.v, and have your children rub your feet as your wife whispers sweet promises of action yet to come, I don’t begrudge you.

In fact, I’ll even get you a refill on that drink while making sure to show off my cleavage in front of you as I bend over to get the ice cubes out of the freezer.

I’m not above using my chesticles to show you how much I love you.

And when you come in to the bedroom after being gone for weeks and weeks and ask me to rub the knots out of your shoulders, I willingly oblige. Because I know how hard you work for us.

I may even use that back rub as the starting point to rub other things, if you know what I mean. (Waggles eyebrows suggestively.)

Which brings me to the meat of the matter.

Your meat.

Specifically, what happens to your man meat when you are drinking and I am not.

In other words, whiskey dick. Defined as what happens to a penis when a man consumes large amounts of liquor and is unable to ejaculate in a time effective and/or romantic manner.

Boo, nobody questions your ability as a lover. One look at my goofy grin and people know right away that I’m a happily satisfied woman.

So there is no need to prove you can out beat the Energizer Bunny. Sex is not an endurance sport. I’m getting older. I spend my day chasing children and small dogs. I’m tired. Sex to me means get in, get off and get out.

I realize I poured you that last drink, but I swear if I had known it would vault you into the Olympic trials for love making, I would have switched you to soda and slapped on that slinky outfit you like a whole lot sooner.

You may not know this but when I say “Are you finished yet?” with a slightly annoyed tone to my voice it’s because I’ve well, come and gone and am ready for sleep.

“Are you close yet?” is not code for “Please keep pounding away at my sensitive nether regions until it feels like raw hamburger and eventually goes numb.”

Nor does it mean, “A little longer and I’ll be right there for Orgasm number 9.”

No. It means “hurry the hell up you nimrod and do what you need to do because if this goes on much longer I’m going to rip off your dick and stick it down your throat while I go soak in a tub of hot water.”

I am not a porn star. While I am extremely bendy and have been known to go above and beyond the call of duty to bring a sparkle to your eye, chances are I’m not going to have multiple orgasms just because you are pounding away at me like a jackhammer.

I know you know this already. I realize your common sense is being held hostage by Captain Morgan and Jack Daniels and your penis is merely a pawn in the war whiskey wages on your libido.

But don’t be a dick and think that whiskey dick of yours is something to be worshipped upon.

Consider this a public message for when you come home next.

Whiskey dick won’t get you to the promised land. That I promise you.

But it will get you a trip to the bathroom with a tube sock and some lotion while I slumber on peacefully.

So next time either get me good and hammered with you, love or just stick to root beer.

It’ll be much easier for both of us.

Sincerely,

Your loving wife.

There are many reasons my husband bows down to worship at the altar of his wife loves me. I’m a smart lady who happens to be rather bendy. Men like that.

I can also make pie from scratch, any type of jam and a salsa that will burn the taste buds right off your tongue while your eyes water with gratitude. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. One look at Boo’s expanding waistline demonstrates this truth.

I can operate a sewing machine without stitching my fingers to the fabric, wield a chainsaw with out lopping off a limb and change the brake pads of a vehicle without worrying about my tires falling off. On top off all this, I still have all of my own teeth.

I am practically the perfect wife. There isn’t much I can’t do. (Disclaimer: That said, there is a lot I REFUSE to do. Like taking out the trash or picking up puppy poop. Just for the record.)

However, for all my stellar qualities, I may have one or two small, insignificant design flaws. My very own Achilles heel if you will.

But rather than focus on my flaws I like to celebrate them. So what if I’m an accident-prone klutz with all the grace of a three-legged blind elephant? Well that just makes me unique!

And if I can’t remember where I put the car keys or my passport, it just means I’m using my brain for other more important things such as memorizing the elements of the periodic table and studying the works of Goethe and Plato.

(Or, um, more likely reading pop culture web sites and composing odes as to why the world would be better off with less Spencer Pratt on television.)

So what if I’m a little absent-minded. I’m sure Einstein had his moments as well. Just because I have been known to forget to diaper a child who has no bowel control or I have lost my 23rd bankcard doesn’t make me a lesser person. It just makes me soul crushingly annoying and maddening to live with interesting.

I keep reminding my husband that despite my many various flaws, I am a catch. He could do much worse. I mean, there are far hairier woman in the world than I am. Right?

Boo, however, remains unmoved by this argument when he has to chop the lock off of our rural post box because I’ve lost yet another set of keys to gain access to our mail. Or when I’ve forgotten to pay his cell phone bill despite numerous and repeated pleasant reminders to do so.

He gets a little testy when I tell him I need another driver’s license because I lost my wallet after placing it on my lap in the car, getting out of the vehicle and having it fall unnoticed on the ground only to mysteriously disappear upon my return to said vehicle.

He no longer chuckles when he finds the cordless phone beside the milk inside our refrigerator and he certainly isn’t amused when I misplace my spectacles and wander around in a blind panic, hysterical and unseeing because I can’t remember where I took them off.

Which is why I’m not telling him I forgot the kids eye examination appointment last month. I’ll never hear the end of it.

You see Boo has a mind like a steel trap. He never forgets anything, has almost perfect recall of events and actually uses his original bankcard until the magnetic strip wears off and the bank needs to send him a new one. (That’s just showing off in my opinion.)

The man even remembers to put the toilet seat down for crying out loud. Talk about annoyingly thoughtful.

It’s like Commander Data married a bubble-headed blonde. Except Boo is less waxy green than Data ever was.

So the other night when Boo was tearing the house apart, I wasn’t really concerned. I figured he was looking for the remote, which I must have invariably misplaced. For the umpteenth time. Except I noticed the remote was right where it was supposed to be. Curious, I watched Boo storm about and mutter under his breath for a few minutes before asking just what the hell he was doing.

“Boo? Just what the hell are you doing?” I asked as the couch cushions went flying. 

“I’m looking for something,” he snarled before stomping off to the laundry room.

“I figured that much out, dough head. I meant, just what have I lost this time that you need?” Like duh.

No answer, but I could hear the dinging of the dryer door being flung open and suddenly clothes were sailing out and landing on the kitchen floor. Curiouser and curiouser. Maybe he was looking for that shiny gold man-thong I bought him as a stocking stuffer once upon a time.

“Can I help you look?” I managed to say this with only a trace of a smirk in my voice.

“No.” 

“Well, can you at least tell me what you are looking for? Maybe I know where it is.” Because while I can’t remember the p.i.n. number to my bankcard but you know, I will always remember where I hide the batteries for my <s>battery operated buddy</s> flashlights.

Boo looked up from sifting through the pockets of pants he was emptying and I could tell he was weighing whether or not to confide in me. Realizing I’m like a bitch with a bone, he gave in and quietly muttered something.

“What? I didn’t understand you. Speak up. Remember? I’m half-deaf.”

Boo sighed like a teenage girl trying to explain the cool factor of the Jonas Brothers to her decidedly unhip parents and very quickly repeated, “Ilostmyweddingring.”

Holy shit batman! My husband lost something! Trying to hide my gleeful smirk, I told him I didn’t hear him. Again. In reality, I totally heard him and was just enjoying the irony of the turn of events.

“I. LOST. MY. WEDDING. RING.” With that he sheepishly avoided eye contact and wished the ground would swallow him whole, I’m sure. 

 My husband never takes off his ring. He’d rather chop off his finger. He says a wedding ring is chick-bait. Truth is, he just knows I’d rip off his limbs and beat him with them if he ever dared removing it.

I couldn’t say anything. It’s hard to speak when you are doubled over laughing. When I finally caught my breath, I asked him when the last time he remembered seeing it.

“I took it off when I was changing the tractor’s oil. I remember putting it in my pocket and now I can’t find it.” 

He looked up at me and caught me smiling.

“Shut up, Tanis. It isn’t funny.” Poor sport.

“I can’t help it. It is kinda funny. You never lose anything! And you are insufferably conceited when I manage to misplace something. I’m just reveling in the moment. Give me a second and I’ll revert to back to my sympathetic self in a second.”

Rolling his eyes he wandered to the bathroom to eye the sink’s drain. I, of course, followed him while mocking him the entire time. I’m helpful like that.

“You know Boo, of all the things I’ve lost, I’ve never lost anything as important as our wedding rings. I mean, that’s big. You don’t just lose a wedding ring.”

I could tell he was getting a little annoyed with me. Too bad. This was my moment and I wasn’t going to let him suck the fun out of it for me.

“A wedding ring is so much worse to lose than a car key or a debit card. It’s even worse than losing an entire purse!”

“You know what this makes you, don’t you Boo? A LOSER. Get it?” I gloated.

“Shut up Tanis.”

“Does this mean I have to buy you another? I think you should have to pony up for the replacement ring. Why should I have to cough up the dough to buy you another ring when you were so irresponsible as to lose it in the first place?” Never mind the fact that Boo has more than once coughed up the funds for lost glasses, books, keys, licenses, remotes, shoes…etc.

I could see my words were wearing on him like nails on a chalkboard. Good. Heh.

“You are enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

“Why yes, I am. I feel like I’m finally on the moral high ground over here and I’m taking the time to plant my flag and sing to the heavens.” I was crowing. Just a little. But it felt soooo good.

He may have rolled his eyes. I couldn’t tell because the tears of laughter were blurring my vision.

“Moral high ground! I don’t freaking think so, Ms. I’ll-lose-anything-if-it’s-not-chained-around-your-neck. You aren’t exactly in a place to judge me. Or have you forgotten that you just lost your automatic car start remote with all your keys on it less than a week ago?”

Picky, picky.

“Oh please. We had two sets. And a set of car keys and a clicker isn’t even on the same playing field as losing a wedding ring. The symbol of our love. The bond of eternity worn on a finger.” I waggled my fingers at him and let loose with my piece de resistance, “I have never lost MY wedding rings. I am no LOSER in that department.”

Picking up a pillow from our bed, he whipped it at my head. 

“That’s because you never wear the damn things!” he countered as he continued to hunt.

Damn. I hate when dude has a point. 

Just then Boo opened my jewellery drawer and spied his golden wedding band.

“AHA! I knew I couldn’t have lost it!” he grinned as he slipped it back on.

Turning to me he smiled. “Guess I have never lost my wedding ring either. And since I don’t lose anything, ever, I’ll just take that flag of yours and replace it with my own on that there patch of moral high ground you were standing on.”

Just as he was passing by me to go resume his life as the man who never loses anything, he stopped and planted a kiss on my forehead.

“Loser,” he whispered and then giggled his way to the kitchen.

Damn it. I may just have the hide the darn thing when he is not looking so I can get back on that moral high ground I was enjoying so much.

After all, all is fair in love and war. And this loser needs all the help she can get.

When I married Boo, I made sure that no where in our vows were the words “obey.” Why set myself up for failure?

I’m just not the type of girl who does very well at obeying. I’m not obedient. If that was a marital requirement of Boo’s, he’d be better off getting a dog.

I’m no man’s bitch. I’m an independent bitch.

That said, I try very hard to respect my husband’s wishes, even when I don’t agree with them. The man supports my arse and keeps me in Cheetos and boxed wine as I sit on my duff all day and surf the internet. I know better than to bite the hand that feeds me.

I like being a kept woman, and I love my sugar-daddy. 

Yet there are times when my husband lays down the law, puts his foot down and absolutely refuses to consider a request I’ve made. It happens so infrequently that I always blink with surprise when he revolts. The last time he refused a request of mine was a few years ago and it may have involved public intoxication and the possibility of bailing my ass out of the clink.

He is wise beyond his years.

However, this time, he had his head up his butt. He was being unreasonable. Stubborn for the sake of being difficult. Digging his heels in and ignoring the wishes and wants of every member of his family for his own personal motives.

I did the only thing I could think of. I over-rode his decision; blatantly disregarded his dictatorial commands and did what I wanted to for the sake of our family.

I brought home a new puppy.

Boo was pissed.

Meet Thatcher, Nixon’s running mate.

My children are over the moon and Nixon, the World’s Greatest Dog, EVER, is still smiling. Of course, it helps that the new dog will be half his size, is dumber than a stump and has female parts. The perfect doggy girlfriend for my sweet Nixon.

My motives were completely selfish pure. Nixon looked lonely, my birdies had kicked the bucket and I am still waiting for an adoption to happen that is beginning to look as though it may be a pipe dream. My heart was over-flowing with love and I needed someone to slather that love all over.

Nixon may have been a tad over-excited.

A puppy was the perfect solution.

Not according to my husband. Who, for days has refused to acknowledge my sweet little mongrel’s existence. He even threatened divorce and at one point thundered that it was him or the dog. He quickly backed down when I tossed a suitcase at his feet and told him to start packing.

Like me, she is no man’s bitch.

In a moment of quiet, after I just finished buttering him up (read: gave him a treat, wink, wink,) I asked Boo what the big deal with another puppy was. Why he was so resistant to the sweet intoxication of puppy kisses and big brown eyes?

“I don’t need another damn dog in my bed. One ass-licker is more than enough.”

Thatcher, Boo’s butt-licker in training.

Well, if that’s all he was worried about, problem solved. My new little pup can just sleep with the kids.

Once he realized there would be no other farting, snoring, shedding little fur monsters fighting with him for the chance to sleep next to me, he calmed down. Enough that I even caught him petting my new pup and talking cute little puppy talk as he scratched her belly.

(Who’s da sweetest liddle puppy wog in da whole wide world? Thatcher, dat’s wight my widdle pwe-shush…)

Oh my sugar-daddy likes to talk tough. But when push comes to shove, he’s all bark and no bite.

That said, I’m gonna take this as a hint that now isn’t the time to artfully slip him the ole pinky finger in the throes of passion. If you know what I mean.

Wink, wink.

How do you not love a dog who sleeps on your shoulder?