Aside

The Penis Monologues

I wanted to get inside their heads, to find out what they were thinking, and by “they,” I mean men, so I asked three of my favorite online guys, and being the great sports that they are,  all three graciously agreed to answer our questions.  Apparently, I’m not the only one who wants to know because ladies and gentlemen, you brought some fabulous questions, so many that I am going to do a weekly installment of “The Penis Monologues” until we have them all figured out…and by “them,” I mean men.  

Today we tackle what men really think about appearance, but first let me introduce you to my guys.

I crossed the demographics and found us a single guy,  a guy with a girlfriend, and a married guy.

Representing the single guys is my California boy, Dave, aka Hellabuzzed. Did you hear that, ladies? This one is on the market.  One (and it’s hard to pick just one) of my absolute favorite things about Dave is his candor. He tells it like it is, and even if I don’t want to hear it, he’s usually right.  He’s adorable, charming,  smart, and he always makes me laugh. What’s not to love? If you’re interested, leave your bio in the comments, and we’ll see what we can do. Kidding…kind of.

Commonly referred across the interweb as “Hotberg,” is Phil. Phil likes to tease me with his hot (keep reading) spots around NYC over at his blog: The Regular Guy NYC. If you ask me, he’s anything but regular.  But ladies, we have to back off of this one.  He’s fully committed to his girlfriend.  He does, however, like to blog naked.  You’re quite welcome for the visual as you read his answers to our questions.  Is anyone else smiling?  I know I am. *winks at Phil*

And then to even out the playing field, I give you the married guy, Don. Don has a huge heart, is a great father, and a loving husband. He loves to swear and can be bribed with Bud Light Lime, but he can also tug on my heart strings when he tells stories of his kids.  He’s quick with his wit and with his pistol because when he isn’t writing over at Don of All Trades, he puts on a uniform, carries a gun, and keeps the bad guys where they belong.

Now that we know who we’re talking to, let’s pop open a beer, put our feet up, and get comfy in the man cave as we try to figure out what’s going on in those thick enigmatic XY heads.

Beth (who gets full credit for the title of this series) from Writer B is Me would like to know:

Do you even notice cellulite, or is it just women who obsess about it?

Dave:  Yes. Guys notice cellulite, and it is not attractive. It doesn’t matter if it is white, brown, black or any color; however, I have a lot of respect for women I see out at the gym or walking around town in little short shorts wearing cellulite proudly. It’s the people who decide to cover it up and not be proud of who they are that I personally don’t like. Wear skirts. Wear shorts. Wear what makes you comfortable. If you have it and don’t like it, change it. Exercise.  It’s not permanent. If you have cellulite or not, it doesn’t change who you are inside. Sometimes women just need to say “Fuck it. This is me….like it or don’t like it. Either way, kiss my ass.” Do women like men with big ole pot bellies? It’s the same insecurity.

Phil:  Of course we do, we’re not blind you know. We notice it just as much as we notice our own beer guts, receding hairline, and aging. Men are vain too, but we just hide it a bit better. I think women obsess about it more when it comes to body issue things. Most guys won’t mind if they really care about the lady they are with.

Don:  Is cellulite that stuff that looks like cottage cheese on the back of a woman’s thighs or ass that is totally gross and makes me shiver and want to both laugh and vomit when I see it? No, I don’t notice it. I guess if it were an extreme case, I’d notice, but I’m a pig and generally just stare at a woman’s boobs, so no worries about cellulite there. You women are all beautiful and shouldn’t worry about such silliness. You didn’t ask, but I’d say that it does look better tan though, as all things do. I feel like I’ve lost 20 pounds when I get some color on my skin.

Lizzi from Considerings asks:

Does it matter to you to look good for your woman, or is it a “done deal..why does it matter?” kind of gig?

Dave:  Yes it matters to me. First off, let me say that I am single currently, but I have been in every sort of relationship, so I can speak from experience. I take a lot of pride in making sure I am at my best most of the time, especially when I am in a relationship. I am fairly metro. I like to make sure my hair is always trimmed and my clothes are current and up to par. I like to work out but not because my girl wants me to but because it makes me feel better on the inside, which shows on the outside. I am not the best looking person in America, but I don’t take that as I shouldn’t be presentable. I expect certain things from my girl that I would assume she would expect back from me. I want my girl to take pride in doing her hair and makeup and making sure she looks good…But mostly because I want her to want to look good. You have to be secure in your relationship too. If she is the center of attention and everyone is gawking at her when she walks into a room,  that could be hard for a lot of people. I’m insecure just like the next person, but you have to have confidence. Confident in how you look, how you feel, and how you present yourself to others. Confidence, not arrogance.  For example, when you get married there is no reason to let yourself go. That just means you don’t care enough about yourself to try. I understand marriage and kids is a huge responsibility, but everyone needs time to work on themselves. Guys are very visual creatures. Give them something to look at…….

Phil:  It matters a lot to me to look good for my gal. It’s a total turn on for my woman to see me in shape, and the perks that come from working out and staying fit delivers even more in the bedroom. Plus, I’m the kind of guy that takes care of myself when it comes to grooming and clothes, whether it be times when I dress up or just go casual. Plus, gotta smell good and be clean, as good hygiene is a must. Life is too short to look like shit. Don’t be that guy who smells bad and looks like a shlub. Take care of yourself and look your best, as I know you ladies do appreciate it. Heck, we all know how long you ladies usually take to get ready and look good for us, it’s the least we can do.

Don:  There’s very little argument that I married up and my wife down in the looks department, but the funny thing is that I think I’m more confident in how I look than she is about how she does. Maybe that’s a woman thing? I guess my wife and I have been together long enough that I don’t really concern myself with how I look THAT much. Aside from my stunning handsomeness, I think she also loves me because I’m her friend and an okay dad to our kids, etc. so I don’t worry about her leaving me for dressing like a homeless man or rarely bathing like a single guy might have to worry about. I do still think about her sometimes, like before I get a haircut, or when I’m buying clothes or cologne. If I remember she mentioned she liked a certain style or whatever, then I’ll do that for her, yes.

Dana from Kiss My List would like to know:

Do you worry about aging the way women do? Lines, wrinkles, hair loss, weight gain – does any of that phase you?  How would you fight it, or is fighting it too girly?

Dave:  I worry about aging just as much as everyone else. I don’t obsess about it. I understand how life works, and I don’t fight it. Am I as handsome as I was at 20? No. Not even close, but I try to make myself feel young. I know I can’t go to Vegas and party all night anymore, but that’s okay. I am older, and I don’t need to anymore. The older you get the wiser you get. Unfortunately we are all in a fight against time, and time always wins. I worry about lines and wrinkles and getting fat, but I don’t let it run my life or control who I want to be. I can’t eat what I want now and not expect  the consequences…and I know that going into it. You have to know what you do will catch up on you….Yes, sitting at the beach or the pool is fun and relaxing but remember in 20 years, it’s going to ruin your skin. I actually support people who are into improving their image with surgery or treatments as long as you don’t look like a duck or Joan Rivers at the end….at that point, just face the facts. You are old. Accept that. Everyone gets old. Your boyfriend, spouse and family love you regardless.

Phil:  Sure, we notice it, but most guys don’t obsess about it as much as women do. I’ve been lucky that I still have my hair, and many women like the gray in it now. A few wrinkles add character. There’s the old adage that as men get older we get hotter and women not so much. I think that’s a case by case basis, and depends on how that person has kept themselves over the years, how they dress, genetics, etc. Living in NYC, I see a ton of hot sexy women 40, 50, and older. I also see a ton of guys in their 20’s and 30’s who look like crap and will age very badly. Personally, I’ll admit I have a healthy concern about how I look to others, and do my best to stay fit and youthful. Aging gracefully is bullshit. I’m going to fight it kicking and screaming until the end. So yes, we do worry about aging, but as human beings I think we all do. It’s up to that person to make the best of it. Everyone handles it differently.

Don:  Worry about what?? My appearance? I’m a generally average looking 40 year old man, so I don’t worry about the way I look so much. I have had periods where I’ve not liked the way I felt about myself and I do want to be healthy enough to see my kids grow up, so I guess I’m phased a bit by aging, yes. It certainly doesn’t consume me, but there are times when I see a wayward hair protruding from my ear or eyebrow and think to myself, “what the fuck?”

My 4 year old called me fat a couple of years ago, because I was getting fat, so I did sort of start working out/running to get myself back into semi-decent shape. For me, it’s how I feel more than how I look, but I can’t let myself go too badly because little ones are brutally honest and nobody wants to hear, “daddy your belly is really big” or “daddy you smell funny” all the time.

While I certainly don’t think it’s too girly to work out and try to look good, metrosexual or whatever is beyond my interest level for sure.

Joy from ComfyTown Chronicles asked:

How long do you have to be with someone before you no longer care what they’re wearing, or how long they spend on their appearance when you go out together?  Do pajamas ever really matter past the initial stage, I guess. Why or why not?

Dave:  You should always feel presentable. Don’t ever lose that feeling, everyone. If you feel like a slob, then people will look at you like a slob. When did you stop trying? When you are wearing sweats at the mall, your man is looking at the hot young thing wearing the skirt and low cut shirt. You want your guys to feel that way about you, not her. When you first start dating I understand you are always at your best and gradually it tapers off once you get more comfortable. Don’t ever get to the point where you don’t care….Then don’t cry about what happens after his attention goes elsewhere.

Phil:  Hey, nothing wrong with throwing on the sweats and a t-shirt on a lazy Sunday while watching tv and having bagels. Or just chilling out on the couch after a long day at work and getting comfortable. Yet, I don’t agree with letting it all go as the relationship progresses. Neither me or my gal own pajamas. Never have and never will. Pajamas are the kiss of death when it comes to sex and intimacy. Once you go there it kind of kills the spirit of sexy-time. Maybe me and my gal might be a bit vain but we try to look good for each other whether at home or going out. Believe me ladies, men do notice and we appreciate it.

Don:  Hahaha, as I answer this, my wife is to my right on the couch in her flannel green pajamas. 18 years of her in pajamas and still going strong. I sleep nude and have never ever been able to understand how a person can wear anything to bed, let alone pajamas. That’s what the covers are for!

My wife and I are both really low maintenance, but I guess if my wife suddenly started to leave the house without brushing her hair or teeth or putting on any makeup, I’d wonder what was wrong with her. I’d not say anything and it wouldn’t matter to me outside of wanting to know if she was losing her mind or something.  She’s never been one to make us late because she changes her clothes 52 times or anything like that. We have three kids and they are the reason we’re always late wherever we’re going. They are also the reason we rarely go any place where appearance matters.

 ***********************************

So there you have it, ladies. Did you learn anything? Were you enlightened? Are you checking your cellulite in the mirror, too?  We asked for it.

Make sure and tune in next Tuesday when they tackle some of your questions that may or may not have made my guys blush.

If you have any questions you would like to add to the monologues, please feel free to leave them in the comment section or tweet them to me.

Thanks again to my guys. I loved your honesty. We need to know these things.

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Aside

I Wanna Know! Do You?

Do you ever wonder?  I know you do.  You wonder. I wonder…What the hell is he thinking?

Well here’s your chance to find out, ladies and gentleman.  I have three very brave men (who shall remain anonymous for now) who have agreed to answer our questions. That’s right, we can finally learn what’s going on in those purty little heads of theirs, so here’s your chance. You have the floor.

What are your questions for my Fab 3? 

Submit your questions here in the comments, or tweet them to me @MandiCLBT with the hashtag #whatmenthink.

I will pimp your blog with your question. If you don’t have a blog, you’ll still get a shout out, so let’s get this party started! Shall we?

The answers will go up on Tuesday, May 27.

Disclaimer: My guys are sweet but also very cool. They get to choose if a question is let’s say too…provocative.  Ask anyway, and let them decide.

Aside

Queen Grimhilde

The snow falls outside my window, a constant reminder of winter, quilting the ground below in a pillow of frost.  As the wind picks up, the flurries rise and fall and whirl in a frenzied tornado leaving the land white from ground to sky.

White.  The absence of color, so majestic.

The forest outside my window tells a story, the howling of the wind, the creaking of the trees in the breeze.  It tells my story.

“I won’t bore you again with it.”

“No, Madame Grimhilde, please do tell your story.  I’d love to hear it…ahem… again.”

“You’re too kind, my dear.  If you would be a darling and fetch me a blanket, and make me a cup of tea, first.  I can feel the chill in my bones today.”

“Yes, Madam, of course.”

“I once was a beautiful young woman, you know,  full of hope and promise, with skin so fair, my mother would say she could see my blood coursing through my veins.  We had little money, my mother and I, and she often would have to beg for food to make it through the week until our next pension.  My father died young in a brutal accident, or so my mother said.  I remember very little of him, but Mother persevered and made me promises of a grander life. She always said that my beauty would win me a prize of a young man, maybe even a prince.  She forced me to stay inside the house, never to meet the sun and suffer its damage.  I spent my days trapped in our cottage. Alone.

“As a young girl, I spent most of my time reading.  I started with the fairy tales wrapping myself in make believe stories of happily ever afters, but as I grew older, the darkness in our little cabin sunk into my soul.  Fables no longer entertained me.  I began to crave more mystic stories, and found them hidden in my mother’s chest, the one I was strictly forbidden to touch, stories of black magic and spells.  Eventually, I learned the craft, but I’m getting ahead of myself, dear.

“One afternoon, I was in the kitchen attempting to brew a love potion  when my mother came bursting through the door.

“‘We have a visitor, Hilde.  Do go and put on your best gown, and please, wash that muck off of your hands.’

“I scurried to my room and retrieved the only gown I owned, the one my mother wore when she married my father.  I brushed off the dust from the capped shoulders and slipped it over my head.  My mother came in and helped me fasten it from behind.  We stared at my reflection in the mirror as she smoothed the silk folds.  Her warped fingers bent like gnarled tree branches around my waist, a testament of the hard work she endured to keep us alive.  I held her hand there, and together we admired my reflection.  She pulled my long black hair into a low plait and fastened it with a red ribbon.  My alabaster skin stood translucent beneath the obsidian silk.

“‘I think I’m ready, mother.’ We heard the hooves and neighing of horses outside.

‘”My dear raven girl,’ she said, ‘Your prince awaits you.’

“My mother greeted our visitor as any peasant greets a lord and bowed as he entered our tiny cottage.  Introductions were made, and we sat at our table.  Before I knew it, my mother poured the young man a cup of the brew I had created.  I pushed my chair out and lunged toward him when I realized what he was about to do, but it was too late.  He took a sip.  And then another.

“He knelt down in front of me and took my slender fingers into his.  ‘You will be my queen,’ he said and kissed the top of the hand he still held.

“I never had a choice in the matter.  A few days later, we were married. My dearest mother died the next day.   I moved into his castle where he lived with his daughter, a little petulant child, plump with being fed too many cakes and given anything her little heart desired, beautiful though with skin as white as snow and lips the color of a ripe red apple.  My husband adored her, even more than he adored me, which was quite a lot.

“The fucking fat bastard wouldn’t keep his hands off of me, always wanting to prod me with his tiny fucking cock, breathing his rank nasty breath into my face as he thrust himself into me night after night after night.  On nights when I refused, my face ached where the tender purple marks littered my skin. Eventually, I stopped struggling.  I thought that maybe one day the gods would bless me with a child, but unfortunately, every month I received a reminder of a body that could not produce life.  Broken.  Barren.  And stuck with that little bitch, Snow White, and her fat disgusting father.

“I could only take it for a few years.   One quiet evening, I fed my husband a beautiful feast.  We were alone in the castle, and I watched his cock swell in appreciation at another excuse for gluttony  just before he fell face down in his plate.  We buried him the next day.

“Snow White was beside herself with grief and a healthy fear of me.  I kept her around as long as I could.  She grew into a beautiful teenager, with a slim waist, full plump breasts and a big round ass that brought all of the princes to our castle to adore her.

“I spent most of my time in my bed chamber with my little pet bird I called ‘Raven’ because he reminded me of Mother. But I could not ignore Snow White and the attention she received from the princes that came from all across the land to get a glimpse of the girl with the fair skin and the red lips.  I noticed more and more that the princes never even looked in my direction.  One day, one had the guile to ask me if I was Snow White’s grandmother.  He fell from his horse to his death on his journey home.  Stupid little man.

“I often stared at my reflection in the only mirror we kept in the castle and eventually moved it into my secret room where I made my potions.  One day, as I looked at myself, the mirror revealed the lines beginning to form round corners of my lips and at the creases of my eyes, the silver wiry hair peeking out around my temples.  The mirror saw the truth and told me I was no longer the fairest in the land.  Filled with rage, I ordered a huntsmen to take that damned child into the forest and kill her, but the noble prick couldn’t do it and came back to the castle begging my forgiveness, which, of course, I could not oblige.

“I learned of where she stayed and followed her about the forest one day, cloaked to keep my skin from the sun, and watched her as she talked to the birds and the rabbits as if she’d gone mad.  That was nearly enough until I saw she she was pleased, happy even.  Her skin reflected the sun’s light, and there was a twinkle in her eye.  The little corners of her crimson mouth turned up on the sides in an obvious smile.  Unacceptable, I thought to myself.  She does not deserve happiness if I cannot have it, too.

“I watched her enter her little cottage and knocked three times on the door after she was inside.  I brought a bundle of candied apples with me, one of her favorite little treats, and when she opened the door, her mouth fell open at the sight of the sweets.  She looked at me, close, as if I resembled someone she once knew but then cocked her head to the side and raised a brow at me.

“‘May I help you with something, old woman,’ she said to me.

“I recoiled at the term ‘old woman,’ but before I could turn and go, she reached down and retrieved an apple from my basket.

“‘Do take a bite, young lady,’ I said to her disguising my voice.

poison apple

“She ate the entire thing in three bites, then licked the gooey sugar from the delicate tips of her fingers.  I watched her fall to the ground, convulsing, white bubbles foaming from her heart shaped lips.  I turned to run back to the castle.  I ran and ran, my breath catching in my chest, muscles aching, until I could no longer make my legs move.

“And then I woke up here, my dear.  I don’t know what happened next.  I’m not sure why Snow White fell.  I only wanted to give her a sweet treat, you see.”

She looks at me now with a smirk.  She doesn’t believe me.  None of them do.  I scoff at her and pull the blanket over my legs and wheel myself back to the window where the white envelopes the landscape.

“Hilde, er, uh, Madame Grimhilde,” she says attempting to garner my attention again.

“Please just go.”  I say, refusing to take my eyes from the snow.

“Madame Grimhilde, I need you to take your pill.”

“No!  Get out of my room.”  Those fucking pills.  They want me to rest, to put me in my bed to sleep until I die, to forget my past, to lay in my own piss and wither away…forgotten.

“Mrs. Grimm, you must take your medicine before dinner.”

“My name is  Madame Grimhilde, and in case I did not make myself clear the first time, I said GET OUT!”

They think I’ve lost my mind. It’s only a matter of time before they come in and tie me to the bed again.  If only my body worked, and I could run and free myself from this prison, feel the snow crunch against my slippered feet and the chill of that unforgiving wind on my cheeks.  Instead I’m trapped here in this room, this place, this hell that is my mind.

“Poor old bag thinks she’s the Evil Queen again,” I hear her whisper to the men who strap me to my bed right before I feel the pierce of the needle.

“Her dementia’s acting up again,” I hear a male voice say, “It’s always worse for the ones who get no visitors.”

And then my head swims into blackness again.

Where is the white?

The white…

White…

This story is a part of the creative fiction blog hop.  Grab the badge and join in if your inner villain wants to play.

creativefiction

Aside

Horseshoes and Hand Grenades

She paces back and forth in her bathroom in nothing but a sexy bra and panty set, heart pounding in her chest.  Just do it. She tells herself, taking a quick peek at her reflection in the mirror.  Not bad.  She adjusts her bra for the 27th time.  Just do it. She silently says again, taking a deep breath.  She walks into her bedroom, picks it up off her nightstand and holds it out in front of her at arms length.

Click.  She looks at the photo.  Ick no.  She shakes her head and ruffles her hair, pulling it over her near naked shoulder.  Blonde hair splays across her chest.   She stretches her arm out again, holding it a little bit higher than the last time.

Click.  She tilts her head.  Click.  She looks up.  Click.  She looks down.  Click.  She looks to the side.  Click.  This time straight at the camera, pouty lips.

She holds her phone close to her face  and goes through the camera roll.  Delete.  Delete.  Delete.  Delete.  Delete.

She growls and throws her phone on her bed.  Why is this so hard?  He’s your husband.  He’s seen it ALL before. 

Deep breaths, back to the phone.  Click Click Click Click Click.

Camera roll. Sigh.  Okay, that one’s not so bad.  She bites her lip and stares at the photo for few more minutes finding every single possible flaw, anxiety billowing deep in her belly.

Ding dong…ding dong…ding dong.  She drops the phone when she hears her best friend, Kimberly’s, signature ring.  Then she laughs and picks it up answering with a chuckle.

“Hello.”

“Hey.  What are you doing?”

“Taking sexy selfies of myself, ” she says holding the phone with her shoulder as she pulls on her jeans.

Kimberly lets out a breathy laugh.  “Why?”

“To send to Huz.” She puts her arms through her shirt and pulls it over her head.

“Send it to me.”

“Dude, no way.  I can’t even look at them.  I’ve taken at least 30 pictures.  One is just okay. ”

They talk for 30 minutes about 247 different subjects, their typical daily chat that takes place every day during Kimberly’s commute home from work.

“Okay, I’m here at the daycare.  Talk to you tomorrow.  Oh, and send me that picture.  I’ll tell you if you should send it.”

“Okay, whatever.  Bye.”

She waits the 20 minutes it should take Kimberly to get home before she hits “Send” along with the message, “You better fuggin delete this.”

Nothing.

Another text.

No response.

Then she paces back and forth, stomach twisted in knots, and waits for her alleged “best friend” to respond with…anything.

She convinces herself it’s terrible and decides not to send it.

Then she hears the ding on her phone.

Kimberly text

 

She responds with a sigh of relief.  Huz leaves for the store, so she decides it’s the perfect time to send it to him.

Send. Sigh.  Done.  Wait.

Tic toc.  Tic toc.  Tic toc.

Huz comes home, says nothing.   She waits until the kids are in bed and says, “Did you get my text?”  He smiles a half smile  “Yeah.  Why did you send that?”

“Really?”

She looks at him, rolls her eyes, and walks into her room.  If he only knew.  Later he says, “I like it.”  Too little.  Too late.  Not good enough.  She grabs his phone and deletes it after already deleting it from her phone and vows to never ever take a sexy selfie again.

Remember children, “Naked selfies almost always work.”

But almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.

Aside

Rear Ends and Flats

Have you ever been sitting at a red light, comfortably minding your own business, having funny chatter with your three year old daughter in the back seat when BAM someone smacks into the back of your car?  So that happened to me this week.  It’s the third time I’ve been rear ended in 6 months.  Cue rear end jokes.

I was driving home from the gym talking with (10) my sweet little girl who gives the best hugs in the whole world and makes me laugh almost as much as (9) Joel McHale when some lady smashed into my car.  Hard. Leaving me with a scratched bumper and an annoyingly sore back.  You should see her car though.

Dealing with the insurance company has proved to be quite an ordeal.  I’ve spent hours of my life on the phone with different people reporting the damage, giving my recorded statement (in which, he asked if there was anything in my car distracting me from my driving, and I replied “the only thing  distracting me was the red light at which I was legally stopped minding my own business when someone who was distracted slammed into me.”), and then trying to schedule a doctors visit.  Apparently, doctors do not so much care for seeing people after car accidents because there’s this little thing called “money,” and they want it, but car insurance companies don’t care to freely give it, so Monday I got hit by a car, and Saturday I’m still not scheduled to be seen by anyone.  Maybe I need to call The Texas Hammer or something, but all I want is to be able to go to the gym and take my favorite (8) cardio core class, which I’ve attended three times a week for over a year now, and I’m certain is the reason why my injury is not so severe, especially considering that just last week I fell down the stairs really hard and still managed to make it to the gym three times without buckling over in pain.  I’m sure everything will work out, but good grief.  Could they not make it a little easier for the….victim?

My week started off bad, but then 7) my dear sweet mother-in-law who is one of my absolute favorite people in the entire world and the most shiny sparkly beautiful woman I know called me on Thursday and asked if she could come and (6) pick up my kids from my house on Friday to (5) spend the entire weekend at her house with her and my (4) father-in-law.   We learned this week that she has stage 4 cancer and will start aggressive chemotherapy treatments this month, so she wanted a weekend alone with my children before she gets sick.

Cancer.  Stage 4.  Chemo.  Cue explicit horrible words.

We strapped our kids into my father-in-law’s SUV, and as I kissed my little boy goodbye and (3) his smile spread across his rosy cheeks, I squeezed him a little bit harder and whispered in his ear, “Have so much fun, sweet boy,” because what he doesn’t know and can’t possibly fathom but lingers in the back of my mind is that his grandmother who adores him and  has picked him up on so many Fridays might never be able to again.

But then she might.  Light thoughts replace dark thoughts, which offers (2) hope.

My husband and I watched them drive away, walked into our house holding hands, and then realized we had the entire house to ourselves for the entire weekend.  I jumped in the shower and got ready so that we could go to happy hour (something we never get to enjoy since having kids).  We decided to go to this cute little village that offers both shopping (blek) and lots of dining and drinking.   In another attempt to woo my husband, I chose an outfit that could only be accessorized by my favorite chocolate colored suede knee high boots.  He whistled when I walked in the room.  Score!  Only, when I started walking around the house, grabbing my jacket and my purse, the four inch heels shot pain straight to that annoying spot in my back that’s been there since Monday.  I sunk on the couch and started to pout because once a girl chooses her outfit, having to choose another one just sucks all of the air right out of her, and he whistled, so there’s that.  Husband disappeared (which I could only assume was an effort to avoid anything that is me when I’m trying to figure out what to wear) but reappeared in the room holding my new favorite and very comfortable flats.

Skull Shoe Selfie (pouty duck lips)

Skull Shoe Selfie (pouty duck lips)

“Just wear these,” he said and flashed me my favorite look in the entire world, the one that only he can do with just half of his lips smiling.  Of course, I whined about wanting to look nice and always wearing flats and wanting him to notice me, etc.  But in end, he won.  I wore flats, took some Advil before we left, and drank some gin, which all helped to numb the pain, and we had a wonderful night….(1) just the two of us.

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