Category Archives: Mr. Romance

Mr. Romance Strikes Again.

“What’s in the bag?” He asked.
“A new perfume.”
“Oooh, let me smell.”
“It’s super sexy. I think you’re going to love it.”
I opened the box, took out the bottle and sprayed a little bit on wrist, a little bit on my neck.
He closed his eyes, took my arm, pulled it up to his nose and inhaled. He opened his eyes, smiled and inhaled again.
“Mmmmm.” He said. “So good.”
I giggled, all flirtatiously.
“You like it?”
“Oh, I love it. You know what it reminds me of?”
I smiled. “Tell me.”
“A cigar.”
He was not trying to be an asshole. He loves cigars, thinks they are one of the finer things in life.
164129_10150114255951103_625381102_7317550_8137419_n
Cigars are sexy, baby. It was a compliment.
Who wants a free bottle of brand new perfume?

That’s as romantic as it’s going to get UP IN HERE, UP IN HERE.

This morning I woke up at 4:30 am to the sound of my husband shaving in sink in the bedroom.
“Could you BE any louder?” I said in that grumpy way that I talk at 4:30 in the morning.
He apologized and turned the water on and off in a much gentler way. Within a minute of being woke up, I realized what day it was.
I knew he had no clue.
I waited as he walked around the room picking up various things that he needed for work. Keys. Cell phone. Time card. Gum.
He said nothing.
The 19 year old me would have been mad and not said a thing. I would have let him leave without bringing it to his attention so that I could use it as a weapon later that evening.
But present day me is too old and tired and, perhaps, mature for all of that drama so I got out of bed, hugged him and said “What’s today?”
“It’s Monday.”
“I know it’s Monday, but what IS today?”
“It’s the 17th…”
Still. Nothing.
And then I saw the look on his face change. He finally realized that today was our wedding anniversary. Our 18th wedding anniversary.
He felt bad and promised to take me out this weekend. And instead of getting all dramatic about how dare he forget our anniversary! I accepted his offer because after this many years together, drama is pointless. At this point, if he brought me home a can of bean dip for the bag of fritos that has been torturing me for the past 3 weeks, I’d be like “Thanks for the best anniversary present EVER!!
Seriously…all that matter is that He Love Me Long Time.
So, yeah, Happy 18th year of marriage to us.
Happy 18th Anniversary to us.
(A friend just sent an “Happy Anniversary email (Yes, we have friends in real life. I KNOW.) and included this never before seen picture. It’s no wonder we’ve lasted so long. We’re awesome.)

I kinda miss calling it The Weapon of Mass Fertilization.

I was going through old files on my computer tonight and I saw a Word document titled “VAS.” Unable to remember what the hell it was about, I opened it up and found this one little paragraph.

When I walked into the bathroom and saw the freshly cut pubes laying atop a piece of toilet paper in a perfect “mound” of curly goodness, I dry heaved for a minute or eight, and but then, I smiled. And that smile grew into a full blown laugh as I shouted “This is going to be the greatest thing to ever happen to us!”

Oh! “VAS” = Vasectomy!
Today was the one year anniversary of The Vasectomy!
I don’t know why I never went back and tried to write about the experience in detail because honestly? It was one of the most hilarious days of my entire life.
(And the days following it were pretty damn funny too. COOKAYS!)
I remember everything about that day, from the fresh mound of shaven pubes, to the look on his face as the nurse called his name. But the part that I remember the most– the absolute best part of that day– (and probably of my existence) is when my husband opened the door to the waiting room after having had his sac sliced open and stitched back up.
Every man in there looked up at him, waiting for some sort of signal that it wasn’t as bad as they were imagining it to be. I could see the fear in their eyes. It was as if they were aching to scream “HOW BAD DID IT HURT, DUDE?” but instead, they watched my freshly sterilized husband as he stood there attempting to walk without looking like a complete jackass.
He stood there for a minute, unsure of what to do with all of the eyeballs staring at his wounded (but clothed) balls. He finally began to walk towards us with a walk that conveyed much pain and suffering.
“DON’T DO IT!” he shouted to the men who were watching his every move. “SERIOUSLY, do not go in there!”
No one laughed.
And because that wasn’t embarrassing enough, he said “Just kidding. It wasn’t that bad, I always walk like this, I ride horses for a living.”
He was dead to me until we got to the parking lot because… dude that was awkward. But oh, how we laugh about it now.
In all seriousness, I am grateful that my husband was willing to go through the procedure so that we could resume a normal sex life after an unplanned pregnancy. I know he was scared and would have rather NOT had his balls sliced open, but he did.
Because he loves (to have sex with) me.
Awww.

My vagina is freaking OUT, but in a good way.


Tonight. Finally.
It’s just “The Class” so we still have to wait for the actual procedure, but at least we’re on the way to fear free sex.
I assumed I’d be coming to the class with him, but when I brought it up, Tony was all “hell to the NO.”
I suppose he thinks I won’t take the class seriously. He thinks I’ll
not be very mature. What does he think I’ll do?
Laugh at inappriate times?
Draw pictures of weiners getting sliced up?
Ask lots of questions about how big the balls actually get?
Oh, how much fun it would have been, but I’ll never know because I’ve been “forbidden.”
Tony 403′d my ass.
Honestly? I don’t blame him. It’s better I stay home and laugh about my husbands balls then do it in front of a bunch of men and one doctor who won’t find me very funny anyway.
I’m excited it’s finally happening and not just because I’m H to the O to the r-n-y, either.
Ok, yeah. That’s the ONLY reason I’m excited about it. I’m sick of saying “No!” Or “Get that thing off of me!” OR “I WILL KILL YOU IF I GET PREGNANT”.
Sick.Of.It.
I am so ready to get a good Enchilada Stuffing and actually enjoy it.
It’s been over a year. It’s time to get that Weapon “deactivated” and back in business.
If you know what I’m sayin’ and I think you do.
UPDATED! WITH PICTURES!
I just “reviewed” the materials the they handed out in “class”. Tony was completely right in “forbidding me” from attending with him.
Because…

Continue reading

What FORTY looks like.


Today, the man I married when I was only NINETEEN years old, turned 40.
Forty.
FOR-TAY.
I still remember when he had hair on the upper part of his head and when we used to “do it” like, 5 times a day (seriously. Five.)
I also remember when he had glasses as big as God.

(p.s. this is the best line ever uttered at a family gathering in regards to the above picture… “Appearing, one night only at the Improv, Antonio the magician. Watch him burn an entire ant hill in less than 10 minutes with his glasses.”)
Here we are, almost 15 years later. He’s balding, I’m fat. How the time flies. It’s crazy. I can’t believe I’m married to a FORTY YEAR OLD MAN and that we have a ONE YEAR OLD BABY GIRL. Just call him Frank Gifford. HA! HA! HA! That was a good one.
Happy Birthday, Fukktonie!! My birthday wish for you is that you stop with the driveby farts that smell like death and disease and that you outlive me because I can not even imagine living in this world without you in it. (But seriously, stop with the farts.)

And he’s ALL mine ladies, so STEP OFF.

My husband just blamed me for the fact he has putrid poisonous gas blasting out of his ass because “WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME I COOKED HIM SOME VEGETABLES?”
Because he’s a doctor and he totally knows that 2 days of no broccoli = gas that smells like a rotting dead body. He also knows that it is MY job to make sure he eats his vegetables.
What will he (and his ass) do should I die tomorrow? I don’t know! Perhaps, COOK THEIR OWN DAMN VEGGIES? Oh, the horror!
Fourteen years he’s been blaming me for everything that’s wrong with him, but this one will go down in our history as the greatest accusation EVER.

Bless his fart

I walked in the door a little while ago after spending the day out on the town with my kids. Tony grabbed me, pulled me close to him, kissed me on the lips and proudly said “Happy Anniversary, baby!! I LOVE YOU!”
It would have been the sweetest moment we’ve had in a long time… WERE IT ACTUALLY OUR ANNIVERSARY TODAY.
It’s not until the 17th, but for some reason that he doesn’t even know, he just “thought it was today”
He can’t help it, he was born that way. And by “that way” I mean, the most unromatic man in all of the world.

Almost better than The Honey Pot.

My husband never ceases to amaze me with his total lack of charm.
The man is obsessed with my ass. Always has been. And I hate to say it? But the bigger, the better. He likes his wimmins big. (And I’m pretty sure it’s because he likes that a “totally out there” ass is multifunctional> Looks good, feels good and it holds your beverages. What more could a man want in an ass?) Well, tonight the man took it to a new level, a level I had hoped he’d never take it to, because tonight, he said the following.
“Mmmm, mama, I just LOVE your buttocks. May I touch your nice, round buttocks?”
No. No you may NOT touch my buttocks. And as an added bonus? You may NEVER utter the word “buttocks” again. EVER. At least not while referring to MY buttocks because, seriously? WHO IN THE HELL USES THE TERM “BUTTOCKS” WHEN TRYING TO GET A PIECE OF BUTTOCK?
Apparently the man I am married to. The man whom I’ve been freely giving The ‘Tock to for FOURTEEN YEARS.
That’s who.