Someone's In the Doghouse...I just Can't Decide Who

I'm having a problem now that my darling hubs is back home where he belongs. I am suffering from terrible fits of anxiety and occasional bouts of jealousy. I am worried my darling has forsaken me. My darling Nixon, that is. Little traitor. I spend four weeks wiping up his pee, picking up his poop, refilling his water bowl and scratching his belly, all for him to trade me in for a larger, hairier, human.

Granted, the hubs is not to keen on the furball. But I'm beginning to think his gruff aloofness towards the pooch is all a rouse. I would swear on my dear angel boy's soul that I heard the distinct murmuring of "Good boy," and "Who's your Daddy?" last night when I left the living room.

And I find it peculiar that the man who, for years, refused to get up in the morning, no matter how many times the alarm clock rang or how many jabs in the ribs he endured, is now the first one up out of bed. He claims it is because he doesn't want to have to clean up puppy poop, but I'm starting to think otherwise. Perhaps it is because he enjoys little Nixon's exuberant greetings after a long night in the kennel.

What really worries me is this morning, my hubs was sitting on the bed when I noticed him patting it, and telling me to come on and hurry up.

Stupid me, here I thought the hubs wanted a quicky, to get the blood pumping. Not entirely averse to the idea, I respond.

Turns out he was talking to my dog, trying to get him to jump on the bed.

Apparently a quick round of tug-o-war is more stimulating than a roll in the sheets with his willing wife.

Like I said. I'm suffering from terrible fits of anxiety and occasional bouts of jealousy...

It's Good to Have him Home

My darling Boo has made his way home. He has left the small town hoes behind, and abandoned his buddies at the titty bar to rejoin his precious family. After travelling a long, dusty highway for half a day, he stumbled through our front door, threw his bags of dirty laundry on the floor, and wearily made his way into bed. Where he waited for the fun to begin.

I do believe he is still waiting.

Because, really, dear internet, what is more romantic than having a stinky, unshaven, horny man dump his weeks of dirty laundry at your feet (and which he expects you to immediately wash) then fall into bed, unshowered, while scratching his nuts and farting into your clean girly sheets? Really, I am getting a little hot for the hubs as I type this.

Upon Boo's return home, I discovered a new rivalry has developed in my house. Between my dog and my man. It has blossomed into a battle of manly wills. A tug of war over my affection. The problem is they both want to sit with me on the couch. With out being slobbered on, chewed on, licked, or (from Nixon's point of view) removed from the couch all together. I take that back. Boo would love it if I slobbered on, chewed on, or licked any part of him. He just isn't so fond of my pooch doing the same.

Apparently, my darling hubs has some issues with my puppy parenting. Like the fact that Nixon believes he belongs on the couch. Like the fact that Nixon has developed a taste for french fries and mint chocolate chip icecream. Like the fact that Nixon refuses to have his ass tickled by grass so, therefore poops inside the house. Boo thinks Nixon is treated too much like my baby instead of my dog. Nixon thinks my hubs has had a stick shoved up a crevasse and needs it removed. (Oh, wait, that may be me..)

I have reminded him that if he never left me to my own devices to chase the almighty dollar, and perhaps offered up some puppy training guidance, maybe my baby wouldn't believe he really is presidential and would shit outside like a normal dog.

And then I continued to shop for hats for Nixon, (look out Wonderbaby) while holding up an infant diaper, sized one. You should have seen my darling hub's face when I casually mentioned the diaper would perfectly fit Nixon's doggy bottom.

Welcome back, Boo.

I've missed toying with you.

My Romantic Fantasies...Biting me On the Ass

As a young girl growing up in the sticks, spending my time watching cartoon reruns of Hercules and pretending I was Helena, I had several romantic fantasies. Some of those fantasies vanished into the night air with the steady hiss of reality escaping my balloon of romantic delusions. A small number of those fantasies actually became reality.

I met and married my handsome, if not somewhat dunderheaded, Prince Charming. I had a beautiful, handcrafted, off-white wedding gown. (Let's ignore the fact that it was an empire-waisted gown, the likes of which my mother had to let the sides out the day before the wedding due to my ever-expanding belly.)

I had a beautiful wedding, with my eight-month old daughter as my flower girl. She sat in a wagon and gummed the plastic flowers to death. (She'd have given Wonderbaby a run for her money in the market of bald-headed, cute baby girls who sport stylish hats.)

I had three lovely attendants, who I was kind to, and allowed them to pick the style and colour of their dresses. (Admittedly, my maid-of-honour was nine months preggers and could chew the tops off of pop bottles by then, so cranky was she. I was a tad frightened of her.) They chose a lovely dusky blue. Not the colour I would have chose, but it looked smart on all three ladies.

But I digress. Back to my romantic dreams. One of those would be to see my daughter walk down the aisle in a sea of white gauze and be whisked off into the sunset by her own Mr. McDreamy. Only, of course, after she graduates from med school and solves the whole world peace problem. I am half way there. After all, I have a daughter, and she is fairly bright. (It could happen, dear internet.)

Another romantic fantasy of mine would be to stand up for my sister when she found her Mr. Right. Well, since that is as likely as me sprouting another big toe (not because my sis is a troll, but because she has sworn off all men and bought herself a new pet; one of those vibrating rabbits everyone keeps talking about) I have had to face reality and kiss another delusion goodbye.

That is, until one of my best girlfriends stepped in, and saved the day. She has asked me to be her bridesmaid for her very special day.

I now understand there is a special place in hell for such requests.

Besides the fact that I am now saddled with an expensive dress I will never, ever, wear again, in a colour which leaves me looking like a half-dead corpse found in an old marsh out on the edge of city limits; I have the honour of standing next to the bride and the maid-of-honour. Both of whom, are stunning. Both of whom, wear makeup like academy-award winning makeup artists. Both of whom actually have breasts and can manage to fill out their dresses without those gel-filled chicken cutlet thingies that make me itch.

Both of whom actually look good in their dresses.

I am going to look like a pre-pubescent tween playing grownup in her mommy's makeup while wearing her big sister's prom dress. I can hear my self-esteem slowly leaking away. The icing to this sad, chicken-cutletted cake, is it will all be immortalized for me to remember forever, with the wedding photos. I can't wait to see the one where I whip out my flask to drown my misery, only to have my boobs cutlets fall out of my bra, and land at my feet.

Yes, that will be me. The one with her hand down her bra the entire night. While slurring her words.

Good times dear internet. Good times.