Love, Arctic Style

I love my husband. I love his laugh, his smile and his beautiful curly locks of hair that my son, Bug, inherited from him. I love my husband's height, and having to stretch up on my tippy toes to wrap my arms around his neck to kiss him. I love his sensitive ways with the children and how he plays with them, when my own dad never played with us. Nothing warms my heart more than to hear my children's shrieks of terror as their father chases them around pretending to be the boogey monster.

There is very little I don't love about my husband. After almost ten years of marriage and fourteen years of romance, he can still make my freakishly long monkey-toes curl like no other.

If I'm giving you the mistaken impression that this post is a loving tribute to my husband, I apologize. Because right now, I want to kick his very cute, muscular ass. Which, by the way, I haven't seen in three weeks but that is a post in it's own....

I had a rough sleep last night. Nope, I wasn't dreaming of dead children, or lusting after sexy movie stars. In fact, I don't recall dreaming at all. Dreaming would imply sleeping, which I did very little of. Because my darling dog (please note the fact I am not referring to him as the World's Greatest Dog, Ever, in this post) kept nosing me off my pillow in an effort to share my body heat.

Normally, I don't mind this. I miss my husband's fondness for dutch ovens, his smelly arm pits and that gaping dip in the mattress, so I use my dog as a poor substitute to curl up with in the dark hours of the night. I can't tell you how many times I have woken up to elbow my husband, and tell him to stop snoring, only to realize it is the damn dog.

(Oddly enough, there is comfort in a hairy, snoring body beside me in bed. Apparently, it doesn't matter who, or what species it is, along as it emanates body odour, I'm a happy girl.)

I digress. I didn't get a lot of sleep last night, due to my dog trying to steal my heat. I should have realized something was up when I woke up thinking I was in some cheesy motel bed, the type you plunk in 25 cents and it vibrates for three minutes. Poor Nixon, couldn't stop shivering. But I didn't notice anything particularly off, as I was cuddled under the comforter.

But when I bellowed at my children (because I'm classy like that) to get their asses out of bed rise and shine, my daughter wandered into my bedroom wearing her freaking snow suit. Apparently, Nixon wasn't the only one who spent the night shivering.

Turns out, we ran out of fuel to heat our home over the course of the night. When I checked the temperature inside my house it was a balmy six degrees. That's 42 degrees to you Yanks. It was is a tad chilly to say the least. (A f*%king under statement as I sit here and shiver. Do you have any idea how hard it is to type when your fingers are slowly turning blue? And how am I going to get all the snot that is dripping from my very red nose out of my keyboard?)

I did what any good mother would do. I told them to suck it up, shut up and put on some mittens. And to get me the damn phone, I had to call their father.

This would be the part of the post where my love for my husband shines through. As his wife and doting children sit in our igloo, huddling together trying to keep warm, my husband was sitting in a cozy little hotel restaurant being served by an 18 year old lady who is apparently all that and then some if you know what I mean. He was eating his breakfast/supper after coming off his twelve hour night shift while making googly eyes at the pretty waitress. Trying to charm her with his good looks and witty remarks into getting free raisin toast. As I sit here freezing my arse off.

Apparently, I interrupted his mojo. Interfered with getting his free toast. Excuuuse me. Let me just turn blue, so you can get sweet talk your way into free bread.

After explaining the situation to my husband, his response?

"What do you want me to do about it?"

Hmmm, let me think.


Seems fairly self explanatory to me. The way I figure it, this is not my fault. Sure, my husband has only been home for a handful of days during the past few months. And yes, he's busting his ass so that I may live the life of an Arctic princess, doing nothing but eat bonbons and blog all day. I understand that he is doing the best he can within the limitations he faces.

But to my reckoning, if he can come home every few weeks for a booty call, why can't he check the fuel levels while he's home, to make sure his precious vagina wife stays warm? Not to mention, providing a simple necessity for his children, like, say, HEAT.

I can't be responsible for every damn thing around here. I have to draw the line in the snow somewhere.

I'm trying to see the bright side to this. He's still cute, attentive and tall. He IS on his way home to remedy the problem. (Although, his idea of keeping warm primarily involves rubbing his stick against me.) And in the seven years we have lived out here, this has never happened before. Because he was HOME. It's not like I'm married to Mr. Chicky, who makes it a habit of freezing his wife and baby chick out of their abode.

Things could be worse. It could be blizzarding out and well below freezing. Nope, the sun is shining and we are expecting above average temperatures today. In a few hours, it will be warmer outside my house than inside it.

My husband could be at that hotel restaurant with the 18 year old bimbo, who could decide she wants a sugar daddy, and instead of giving him free raisin toast, could offer up some free sugar if you know what I mean. Instead, he is probably speeding like a madman, on his way home, to once more save the day and enshrine himself in the glory that is being a good husband.

And the brightest side to all of this: My boobs are awfully perky right now.

Maybe I will let the husband use his stick to keep me warm. It's the only time I'm going to resemble a perky 18 year old. Might as well take advantage of it.