captain horndog, resident corndog

Every relationship I've ever (and I do mean ever) been in has eventually devolved into an endless stream of corndog innuendo. Romance and sexy (actually sexy) flirtation - so I know you're capable of it, boys - wears away over the weeks, months and years and suddenly I can't even talk about my day without an idiotically suggestive response.

Here's a tip: If, for instance, I've just confessed that my children/coworker/neighbor/asshole Walmart cashier make me want to scream, it is not a good idea to chuckle and say, "Baby, I got something to make you scream later..."

And if I say I have a tip, don't tell me you've "got a tip for me," followed by a creepers eyebrow jiggle. 'Cuz I know that's what you're thinking.

For cripe's sake, it's what you're always thinking.

Try this instead. Zip your lips, listen to what I'm saying, act like you give a damn and go jiggle something else later. Lotion's in the cabinet by the sink.

This might be the response you want,

but it is so not the response you're going to get.

photo cred: Erin Z

a woman's right to shoes

I love shoes. I own probably over 100 pairs. Manolos. Louboutins. Valentinos. Nine West. BCBG. Target.

And I will not get rid of one pair. Not one. They all go with something.

This drives my husband bat-shit crazy.

"Your shoes are everywhere," he moans, almost daily. "It's as if you just step out of them wherever you are, and leave them there!"

Yeah? And?

When we're out shopping, and I find a cute pair of shoes, he declares, "You have to get rid of a pair you have in your closet if you're going to buy those."

The fuck I do.

He has 679 dress shirts, 10 of which he wears. And 15 silk handkerchiefs I know he'll NEVER use. And 2,347 pairs of boxes with dogs and ladies and playing cards and polka dots and stripes and paisley on them. I don't ask him to throw those out, and he leaves them on the floor.

This drives me bat-shit crazy. Not because he owns 2,347 pairs of boxers, but because his shit is everywhere too.

I could complain about this, or I could let Carrie Bradshaw complain for me:





Preach it, Carrie.

while you were out

While you were away on business recently, I couldn't help but notice a few little things. One, I spent a hell of a lot less money. And because you weren't there to whine about the groceries I "forgot" to buy - i.e. the things you never put on the list but presumed I would remember because I don't have 5 billion other fucking things to think about? - I never even went to the store. For a whole week, the children and I managed to survive on what was already stocked in the fridge and pantry. Imagine that. No "emergency" runs to the area HellMouth, a.k.a. Walmart, with two children in tow, because you ran out of coffee creamer. Or beer. Or soda.

You know what tastes great? Water. Try it sometime.

Also, the bathroom stayed way cleaner.

So did the kitchen.

And every night I went to bed at a reasonable hour. Why? Because once the children went to bed, I had peace and quiet. Think about that for a minute.

Better rested. Less shit to clean. Less running around town. Better finances.

But I'm sure it was all just a coincidence. Had to be.

Though it defies all reason, some find water refreshing.

Photo cred: alfebetac