Here's a Hint

I look forward to Boo coming home. Really, I do. It's nice to have a man around to hold me take out the garbage.

But now that he's home, I wouldn't mind seeing the tail lights of his car drive down my driveway as he hits the road.

My loving husband is driving me nuts.

Between fighting him off every two seconds last night as he groped for my boobs, putting up with his perpetual requests for a blowjob and having to defend myself as to why there were no towels in the bathroom when he got out of the shower, I'm ready to be a semi-single mother once again.

I mean, dude. Really. It's not like there were no clean towels. It was just that I forgot to put them away after washing, drying and folding them. They were sitting neatly folded on top of the dryer which you would have noticed when you walked into the laundry room to toss your dirty clothes on the floor (instead of the hamper neatly sitting two feet away) had you opened your eyes.

Or stopped thinking of blowjobs for all of two seconds.

Please don't hold me responsible for the lack of butter in the house. I don't cook. How the hell should I know if we don't have any butter? Or milk. (Heh.)

There was beer. That ought to count for something. I should get points for thinking of you.

When I asked what you wanted for your belated birthday supper and you waggled your eyebrows and said a love taco, I thought you meant MEXICAN food. Not sex. Sheesh.

Don't be mad at me just because as you pulled down your pants to hang your willy in my face and made lewd comments about having something good to suck on your daughter walked in. I was on the couch trying to read blogs and ignore the tube steak being waved in front of my nose. I didn't ask you to tug the Pickle out to play show and tell.

Keep your snake in the grass so I don't have to lie to your daughter and tell her you were just showing me how your zipper keeps slipping down.

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When your son asks if I want to play with his brand new juggling balls that is not an invitation to grin like a mad man and offer me your balls to play with.

I don't know if you know this, but our kids, they aren't two and three anymore. They are growing up. They know what you mean. They are starting to figure out that their parents are perverts.

This is my polite way of telling you that you need to stop threatening to tie me up and spank me for being such a naughty girl when our kids are hanging on our every word.

With my luck one of our beloved demon spawn is going to start prattling on to his or her teacher about how their daddy likes to punish their mommy in the bedroom.

I've already got a reputation. Let's not add to it shall we?

And when I ask you to pick up strawberries, ice cream and some whipping cream it is for the cake I baked for your birthday. It is not an summons for seduction and sex games thirty minutes before our dinner guests are scheduled to arrive.

Unless of course you are offering to scrub out the guest toilet and quickly vacuum so they don't know we are sloths. Then I may be inclined to show my gratitude in a horizontal position.

But you didn't offer. Too bad for you.

I love my husband. Really, I do. But somehow he seems to have mistakenly confused me for some local nymphomaniac porn star while he was away at work.

Twenty four more hours and then I'm home alone again.

It seems like an eternity.

Damn I suck as a wife.

Just not in the way Boo would like.