The Art of Wooing

There was a time when I would see my husband and all I could think of was all the naughty things I would do to him, things that would make my momma blush and my father race out to buy me a chastity belt.

Ahh, those were the days. We were young, in love and fornicating like two bunnies in heat.

Now, when I lay eyes on my husband all I can think about is my 'honey do' list waiting for him on the fridge and wondering if he'll actually be able to cross off an item while he's at home.

It seems I am more interested with what my husband can do around the house while he's home than I am in fulfilling my official spousal duties to 'do' him.

Really, the man's life is hard. Or so he keeps reminding me every minute of the day.

It's not that our romance is dead and we are living a life devoid of passion and heat. It's more like, after eleven years of marriage, three kids and a mortgage later, my darling Boo has forgotten the fine art of wooing his lady and mistakenly expects me to mattress dance with him just because I'm legally obligated to.

Screw that.


Like many mothers and wives out there, all I want is a little romance.

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Would it really hurt him to tell me I look beautiful even if my muffin top is hanging over the edge of my mom jeans and I've forgotten to shave my underarms and the hair is peaking out while I chase after the kids wearing a sweaty stained tank top?

Would he really die if he had to actually put his dirty dishes in the sink instead of leaving them by the computer or on the coffee table? Where does it say in the book of life that menfolk will turn to a pillar of salt if they have to wash a dish or wipe out a toilet bowl?

My husband doesn't get that when I ask him to bring me home something special after he's been away working, I'm not referring to a big ass duffel bag stuffed full with his skeevy underwear and smelly socks.

He just doesn't understand why I'm not racing to greet him wearing nothing but my birthday suit and a sexy smile when he comes home and drops that big bag of rancid clothing at my feet. Nothing says foreplay like sorting his whites from his darks while I'm butt naked.

Oh yeah. I'm getting hot just thinking about it.

Yes, my beautiful and darling husband has forgotten about all the times he'd try his hand at romance by bringing me flowers or whisking me away for a romantic picnic where he'd feed me grapes and rub my feet.

Now the only time I eat grapes are the times I'm tossing them at my children's mouths and seeing if they can catch them.

(Frac is definitely more skilled at this than his sister.)

To be fair, my husband isn't the only one who has turned his back on the fine art of romance. It's not like I bend over and give him head on a moments notice just to see him smile anymore.

As my husband thoughtfully pointed out recently, I can't even remember what baby gravy tastes like anymore.

Funny, I can't shake this nagging feeling telling me I'm not missing out on anything by not remembering. Except for seeing my husband's spontaneous smile. Which I now know I can illicit just by making farting noises with my armpit.

Hell, if I had known that ten years ago I could have saved myself hours of lock jaw and drooling all over my chin. Heh.

So we aren't the most romantic couple to walk the earth. I can live with that. Hell, I can not only live with that, but I will celebrate that. The fact that we can see each other naked after more than a decade of marriage and not double over with laughter or run screaming from the room, is a true testament of our love.

Three kids, some stretch marks and a few pounds between the two of us and let me just tell you, we are HAWT.

I think the real romance in our relationship is derived not by the smoke generated from between the sheets but our unrelenting willingness to forgive one another and still get naked and bump uglies with each other.

Proven just this past weekend when I got out of the shower and stood in my bathroom, naked and troweling on my makeup.

Boo had only arrived home hours earlier, in the dead of the night while I was sound asleep. My lovely husband was feeling a little annoyed that he'd been home for a grand total of ten hours and he still hadn't seen any marital action other than me nagging at him to pick up his socks.

As he pouted to me about this while I got ready in the bathroom, I ignored him. I don't know where my husband get's this mistaken delusion that I just live to jump up and down on the end of his man-stick at a moment's notice.

"You don't even care I'm home," he pouted as I applied my eyeliner.

"Of course I do," I stopped and put my eyeliner down and looked at him. "Who else would take the garbage to the dump and put the mower attachment on the lawn tractor? I'm THRILLED you are home." I smiled at him and then went back to putting on my makeup.

"Very funny, Tanis. But that isn't exactly what I meant." If his bottom lip stuck out any further I'd have mistaken him for my three year old nephew.

"You didn't even notice I got a haircut just for you."

I looked at him and noticed his new do. He did look kinda cute. Still, I wasn't going to make this easy for him.

"Oh please. You had to get a haircut for work. I cared so much that you are home that I showered for you."

"Ya. I'm sure your shower had nothing to do with the waft of green noxious gas emanating from you and was all about me coming home," Boo grinned.

"Ya, well, I shaved my legs for you!"

"Pfft!" He rolled his eyes. "I shaved my beard for you."

"I plucked my eyebrows for you!"

"Hey, I trimmed my toenails for you and nothing says romance like a guy using the toenail clippers."

Damn. He was right.

I was determined not to let him win this match of "Who loves who more." The competitive bitch inside me demanded a victory.

I looked him square in the eyes, stood up straight and pushed my boobs out as far as they could proudly go. Nothing like distracting a man from imminent victory with a little naked titties in his face, I thought.

"Oh yeah? Well, I plucked my nipple hairs just for you and if that doesn't say love, I don't know what does," I smugly lied.

Top that, Boo, I thought to myself.

Boo leaned over and I thought victory was mine. I thought he was going in for a kiss.

Turns out he was just going in for a closer inspection.

Ogling my boobs adorned with their shiny bling, he looked up at me and said, "Next time try harder. You missed a few hairs."

Then he sauntered out laughing.

I spent the next fifteen minutes performing a self breast exam and looking for any hairs.

It was marital foreplay at it's finest.

Well played Boo. And I was worried our romance was dead.