I blame John's love of football for some of the things I do such as shit talking, ball grabbing and tackling). I'm a red blooded American woman, if I see something on TV, I have to emulate it, right? Right.

That's the only excuse that I can even begin to formulate for the reason that I quickly gathered a burst of energy, sprang up like a rather less than graceful gazelle and ran around the living room only to get low and throw my shoulder into my husband's midsection. That's right, I tackled my football player sized husband onto the couch and continued to "beat him up" (so that social services doesn't come and take me away, my "beating" consists of goofy harassment) for about forty minutes. To be fair to him, I only had the upperhand for the first ten minutes of the battle but he's 6'1" and 5'5" and I'm uh...dainty...well, not really, but I'm daintier than a football player. I used all the tricks in my playbook--titty twisters (learned from my youth), Indian (Native American) Rubs (he said, "hey that feels nice!"...it was infuriating), licking of face and glasses (kind of gross to do, it isn't recommended). I crawled under his Eagles jersey and initiated a three pronged attack using my mouth and and hands but aside from his girlish shrieks I didn't accomplish all the mayhem that I had been planning. However, it still provided 40 minutes of unadulterated fun and excitement. I'm keeping things spicy, like salsa! Or maybe immature like recess...either way, we laughed like hyenas.

The nasty side effect? Today, my back feels like I'm an 80 year old arthritic hooker (SFW).