This is the best story. It didn't happen to me, but I kinda wish it had. My friend Kelly just had her second child and in the hopes of not having more children, she and her husband decided that he should have a vasectomy.

They tell you (apparently) to bring along an athletic supporter for afterwards. Well, Kelly's husband forgot to get one before the operation so it was up to her to get it. She walked into the sporting goods store and went to the counter...and as it always turns out, just when you don't really want to see them, you run into former students! Yes, a former student was behind the counter and asked her if she needed any help.

Kelly blushed and said that she was looking for a jock strap for her husband. The former student seemed non-plussed but asked what size she needed. Kelly blushed again and thought before speaking, "He's about average, I think..." was her reply. You can imagine her embarassment when the former student/ now athletic supporter expert said to her, "It goes by waist size!" And all Kelly could say was, "Oh."

Would you allow a very visibly pregnant woman to walk out with one of these on her belly (it must've transferred from my milk)?? Apparently everyone at my local Giant was OK with it.

Thanks Giant patrons, thanks a lot.

Oh yeah, and fuck you!

John just "stormed" dramatically downstairs because he didn't like the way the interventionist guy on the show Intervention was being passive aggressive towards the addict. As he ran downstairs (to smoke in his man cave) he said (and I quote), "I'd never let him run my intervention" which left me wondering what people were going to intervene about...leavinga gazillion socks in his car? Being a good cook? For playing with his iPhone too much? I dunno.

And as he went downstairs I'm fairly sure he muttered, "I hate your TV shows..." which is really just code for the fact that he's jealous that TIVO works overtime for me and not him!

The evening starts off casually enough, we're over at John's sister's house having dinner on the deck. They all have a few drinks in them and the conversation in on drugs. I start telling them about how the kids are now putting pills up their asses to heighten the drugs' effects...and that the kids even told me about it. Everyone is kind of dubious, but then John reminds them about how that one guy who couldn't drink anymore was giving himself Sherry enemas so that he could still get drunk. This is the conversation that followed.

Jason: Your sister gives me enemas all the time!

Everyone ignores this...and tries to move the topic to something "safer" than Jason's enema...but someone can't let it go.

Picnic goer: Well I'd to be careful because I have a hemorrhoid.
John (always eager to share when tipsy): I have a hemorrhoid!
John's Brother: You can get them from sitting on cold concrete..."
John: I had to take Preparation H in a suppository.
John'sBrother's GF: I had to use an anal suppository.
Me: Why?
John's Brother's GF: Because I have anal um...anal... canyons?
John Brother: What?!?
Me: I think you mean anal fissures.
John's Brother's GF: Yeah...that's right!
John's Brother: What?!?
John: I think you get them from...umm...
John's Brother: How come this is the first time I'm hearing about this?"
John's Brother's GF: Because I don't just tell everybody!
All of us: laugh hysterically


Enter John's sister

John to his sister: "You gave Jason an enema?!?"

John and his brother once told me the best story in all the land...I want to tell it to you because I love you ever so much.

When they were very little they went to a private Christian school which was very strict. John's brother went to the bathroom, but the little guy realized that he was too late, the worst had happened---he had pooped in his Spiderman underoos! So like any smart five year old, he took his undies off and he decided to hide them behind the toilet because there were kids milling about the sinks and he didn't want to walk past them to throw the underwear out in the trash. Little man cleaned up as best as he could and then he went back to class, sighing with relief that he had escaped complete and utter embarrassment...

Not exactly.

I'm not sure what this school's motto is, but it seems like it might be "We love to humiliate our students in public" because the offensive underwear were found and instead of just being thrown away, they were placed in a baggie and labelled "Exhibit A". All of the students were called to the auditorium and the teachers explained in horrifying detail what had happened. They raised the baggie of Spidey undies and said, "Does anyone know who these are?" And quickly John raised his hand and yelled, "They're my brother's!" And then total embarrassment ensued. Over the weekend, John and his brother were transferred to public school, imagine that! John claims that the whole school was going to be punished over the infraction while his brother claims that John just surrendered the information with glee. I'm not sure who I believe, but I know which one I married and I'm going to make sure that my dirty laundry is all placed in the proper receptacle. The man's a whistle blower and no one is safe. I call him Deep Throat just so I can see him squirm.

Yesterday I got my period and I cried quietly on the toilet. No, it wasn't an earth shattering bowel movement that brought tears to my eyes nor the desire to take a picture of my scat like John once did to me (true story-it was because his poop looked like a banana...in between gags I told him it looked like a parentheses*). It was because I really thought I might be pregnant this time around because well...my boobs were bigger and sore, I was a hormonal mess and my back hurt. But no, lucky me, these symptoms are the same as those of menstruation. Fuckers.

John came home last night and he was feeling frisky. I can't remember what he actually said to me but all I can remember (or conjure up in my imagination) was him saying that his "penis wanted to talk to me". I doubt he really said that because I would still be laughing now if he did. I gave him the news that it was all tampons, all the time and he did something unexpected, he started to cry (at first I was flattered, he was that upset that we couldn't have sex?!? awww how sweet, and then I realized...) Not sob, just a fear tears silently slipped from his eyes and he told me how he had bragged to people at happy hour how excited he was to be a father and that he thought this time was the lucky time. Of course, like me, John's dramatic and he said with resignation, "That's it," throwing his hands up, "I'm sterile!" and I said shaking my head, "No, no...I have old eggs...it's me babe." And that led us to the scenario which had us laughing as we pictured his sperm limping their way towards my old egg who was sitting on her front porch in a rocker and wearing a blanket over her shoulders in the sweltering heat, shaking her cane and saying, "Stay off my porch! Don't you come up here!" I imagine her to look like this. And somehow that made up story made me laugh and worry a little less. Hopefully the next egg is a little less cranky and his sperm is like Mark Spitz, I especially hope that it has Mark's sweet porn 'stache.

* I could actually post the photo in question because for some reason, I realized just now (at 5:25pm) that the poop pic is still in my phone! I am once again grossed out, but again, making no move to delete the photo.

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).

We went to John's fancy schmancy Holiday party this weekend and when I came home from getting my hair done by his sister and slipped my black dress on he said, "You look absolutely gorgeous!" and he cupped my cheeks and kissed me deeply. That, however, was nothing compared to what he said to me yesterday while we were lying on the couch and he was smooshing my face with his hand while I was sticking my tongue out and trying to lick him (sexy and sophisticated right?). As I made a final tongue attempt he said to me, "I think they wrote a book about you, what was it called? Oh yeah, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Fish Monkey!"

Why that made me laugh so hard? I'm not sure but I loved it so much that I made him call me a fish monkey all night.

I don't know how this story slipped my mind...but somehow John came away unscathed because I hadn't posted this story on the blog--and we can't have that, now can we?!? Hells no!

Last weekend John and I got a bit drunk on our deck while listening to Bob Dylan, munching on some grilled foods and sipping on whiskey. Somehow, I managed to get myself more than a little tipsy so I excused myself from a drunken game of wii golf that we always end up playing when we've had a little too much, and I sneaked away uptairs to sleep. Eyeing up my options, a nice cushy queen sized bed or the floor as sleeping choices, I picked wisely. I chose the floor as the ideal place for slumber, I grabbed my pillow from the bed and I happily closed my eyes...and this is where the story gets interesting.

Apparently while I was sleeping, a certain drunken Johnny came upstairs and beheld his naked wife passed out, ahem, sleeping on the bedroom floor. The drunkard thought to himself, "Hmm...you know what Melina probably wants right now? I bet she wants to be tied up!" (I picture him scratching his beard while coming up with this bang up idea). So drunken husband o' the year sets about looking for things to use to tie me up with. All the while I'm just snoring away, blissfully unaware of what he's doing.

From his account of the evening's activities, John said that he wandered around the room and settled upon my pink robe tie and a pair of flannel pajama pants. The pants he tied over my face as a "little blindfold" because (as he chuckled) he didn't want me to wake up and see him (Oh of course not, because he knew that I would've probably decked him!) He managed to expertly get my arms behind my back and well...tie them up with the pink robe tie. Ok, so this story might be sexy if I had been awake (if you're into that), it might've been a little more perverted if he hadn't fallen asleep in the empty bed, but the story just turns out to be plain old funny because...

John passed out on the bed, leaving me to wake up the next morning wondering why I was blind and why I couldn't move my arms! After a long struggle, I managed to free my hands and then get rid of the damn pair of pajamas that were tied to my head. Call me Melina Houdini...if you will. You can imagine that I was more than a little confused because I damn well knew that when I put myself to bed I left off the blindfold. "Hmmm...who could it have been?", I thought to myself. Looking around the room, I quickly recognized the culprit who was sleeping the sleep of the guilty, alone in the bed while I had been naked on the floor with nothing for warmth but a robe tie! Of course, I woke John up to find out what the hell he had been up to but he just mumbled sleepily, "You looked so cute on the floor, I tied you up!" and with that he gave me a sweet smile and fell back to sleep leaving me scratch my head and rub my wrists a little wondering who the hell I married.

Watch your back Johnny boy, I've got a little of duct tape that has your name all over it...I'm just saying...

Last night John and I were watching a comedian, Tom Pappa to be exact. Typically, we Tivo a bunch of Comedy Central Presents and weed them out/delete immediately if both of us don't issue a belly laugh in the first three minutes. Hey, it may be hasty, but there's only so much time in the day...

Well there we were on the couch laughing at Mr. Pappa's jokes when out of nowhere I start cracking up to the point where tears are just pouring down my face...but Pappa wasn't what I was laughing at. I pawed at the air and gasped, "Pause IT!"

John pauses it and looks at me quizzically, "What?"
And that's when I had to explain, well, after I laughed hysterically for five minutes by myself.

"Remember when we were watching that Lewis Black special and he said that there are certain sentences that if you think about long enough your head will explode?"
John nodded.
"Remember when he said, "Listen to this and try to wrap your brain around the mindfuck that is this sentence..."?
He nodded again, a smile spilling across his face. Like mind readers, at the same time we both uttered the sentence,
"If it wasn't for my horse, I would've never spent that year in college" and then we proceeded to laugh on the couch hysterically for about fifteen minutes.

The funniest part of this story came later when we were doing some things on the couch that shouldn't produce laughter when done correctly...and I couldn't stop thinking about the sentence!!! The best I could do was avoid eye contact, bite down really hard on my lip and think about baseball.

Seriously, say the sentence very slowly pausing appropriately at the comma and then tell me you didn't laugh. What the fuck does that even mean?

After a fairly harrowing experience at both Fredericks of Hollywood and Victoria's Secret yesterday I was feeling a little low about my lingerie purchase. There is just no in-between ground with these places. Federicks is just sleazy and cheap looking and Victoria's Secret is more comfort driven than sexy driven lately...don't get me wrong, I saw lots of things that I would like to wear when cuddled up with a bowl of popcorn and a movie; but this mission wasn't about me--it was about John. You see, I was reminded on Friday of the fact that I don't romance the boy enough. And it's true. I'll strip down naked at any given moment but I never do it with any panache or class. As John stated on Friday, "I guess you never had to do it? You just brought the guy home, took him up to your bed and had at it, huh?"

Um, yeah...that's about right.

So anyways, I decided that I was going to start practicing my seduction/romance skills. I know the boy has a weakness for lingerie and stockings so I set out to give him exactly what he wanted. After a brief shuffling through Fredericks, I left only with the stockings. I got to VS and I couldn't find anything that wasn't an A cup or a 32. Frustrated, I found one item I wasn't completely fond of, but it would do. I hastily paid for it, grabbing a couple lipglosses for good luck and to cure my desire to run to Sephora and drop a paycheck or two and I headed home.

It was at home that I tried the damn mesh/lace thingamig on. First of all, it was a small...I am not a small. It fit though, and that made me happy. Looking in the mirror, I was expecting to look more like the ladies in the catalog do. I looked decidedly nothing like that. Then I realized that I didn't have a garter belt anymore, so the stockings that I pulled up began a shameful slide back down my legs as if they were too embarassed to be seen on me. I reached into my arsenal (read: three drawers of bras and panties...I used to work at VS!) and pulled out a frilly little garter skirt thingamabob that I had never worn. It looked cute as I held it in my hand, I couldn't for the life of me figure out why I had never worn it. Two minutes later, I realized. That little garter skirt was the most goddamn-ridiculous thing ever invented. I swear, even the dog had to bite her lip not to openly gaffaw.

Stripping that off, I slipped into my trusty boxer shorts and t-shirt and put the offending lingerie back into it's small pink bag and stowed it next to the couch. When John came home, I slowly explained the trouble that I had had with my seduction mission as I pulled the lame lacy items out of the bag exclaiming, "It's not even what I wanted. It's STUPID!" and that's when I started to cry a little.

John grabbed the stupid cami top thing and said,"No it's cute" and then in the same breath, "Are these holes so your nipples poke out??" And I nodded, pronouncing,"They're stupid too!" with all the conviction of a five year old who doesn't want to eat her broccoli. "You can pull them shut, that's what I did when I tried it on...they're stupid poking out like that." (Notice my immense vocabulary?? I really like the word stupid. A Lot.) And then I cried a few more tears. And that's when John comforted me, by cupping my boob and gently murmuring, "There, there." And that made me laugh, because John was comforting my breast. Later, I used this move on him to ease the pain of a devasting loss at darts to yours truly. It seemed to calm him as well...go figure.

This little tale simply proves that Sarah Silverman is always right. She said, "If you hop in the shower with your boyfriend or husband you are guaranteed to leave it with squeaky clean breasts!"

"We should ride our bikes more often..."
"We really should!"
"We could ride them to thitwbar up the street for Wing Night...but wait, where would we lock our bikes up there? Do they have a bike rack?"
Eyes leveled at him I replied, "John, I highly doubt it. Maybe we could attach a long chain to one of the cement blocks in the parking lot?"
John thoughtfully scratches his chin, "No, that wouldn't work."
I think for a few seconds and say, "Oh! I've got it, we could chain them up over at the Catholic school!" (conveniently located across the street from the bar).

Then I sat for a few more moments and said laughing, "Or you know...we could just walk up there!" because honestly, we live within two blocks of the place. I continued, "It's good to know that we just spent about 10 minutes trying to figure out the most complicated ways to get to the bar, with complicated transportation and complicated ways to maintain anti-theft."
It was then that my smart ass husband responded with,
"I'm sorry, what were you saying? I was just wondering if they have dirgible moorings up there...".

Maybe you had to be there, but it was so corny it was hilarious.

John gets home from work and while we're munching on dinner (I'm becoming a good cook, yo!) I tell him, "Oh my god John, I watched the saddest movie today!" because let's be honest, aside from laying out, my day wasn't all that exciting. He said, "Oh yeah? Which movie?" I replied, "Dear Frankie". He said, "Why was it so sad? What's it about?"

And so, with tears welling in my eyes as I thought back to the movie, and I carefully told him in about ten minutes all about the movie. As I wiped a single tear away, I waited for him to mock me for loving such an obvious chick flick. Instead, he says, "Wow, you tell the worst stories!" and he laughed at me. He laughed! I became indignant, "You asked what the movie was about, so I told you!"

"M, I asked for a synopsis of the story...I doubt you'd find all of what you said on the back of the box!" And then the smartass picked up the case and pretended to read my "long synopsis" on the back of the case. Then he turned to me and said, "Do you think we can get you to pretend to read the back and you could just retell the plot and I can video tape it?"

What a db...I liked it better when he wanted to film me naked.

PS. I'm not mocking Native Americans, I'm mocking this poorly made commercial.

T and I went to see Gwen Stefani last night and you didn't. It was our birthday present (from March) and it was absolutely amazing...aside from the fact that I nearly got into a fist fight over my seat (I was in the right...AND...I didn't actually have to hit the evil woman but I should've especially when she gripped my shoulder and said, "I'm sorry that they let you in here..." and then I was all like, "Whatever bitch, you're in my seat and instead of hitting you like I want to, I'm going to listen to T and go to the usher and get him to move your ass!). And aside from the fact that it was 99.8% estrogen in the arena, it still managed to be AMAZING. Now don't get me wrong, I wasn't there to hit on men, pick them up or even admire them...but when you get 10,000 women in the same place it doesn't give off a good vibe! Before Gwen came on I wavered between wanting to embrace all the sweetly dressed little girls and smacking all the weirdly dressed older women (ie. a 40 year old woman dressed in a skin tight silver lame shirt, black leggings and then silver rat killer shoes).

John and Earl (the person responsible for our tickets!!! whoo!) wandered the streets of Camden. They ended up playing pool and some girl came over to John with a ping pong ball and asked him to get the dent out with a lighter. He said, "I really don't know what to do, I think you'd better do it." The next thing you know the ping pong ball was on fire! She leaned in and and whispered, "This was so embarassing! Please don't tell anyone..." He said, "Sure, I'll only tell my wife!" She ran away. But hey, my husband still has it...with socially awkward women.

Since 2003 I've owned my own home and lived alone...and loved it. I know there are lots of people out there who don't like to be alone but I am not one of those people. It is a true testament to the fact that I love John that we've been able to co-habitate for almost a year now. I just wasn't hardwired for roommates...I like space. I like quiet. I like things my way. Basically, I'm just a bitch. That being said, I have a roommate for about three weeks. John's brother moved in with us temporarily and will be moving out at the first of the month. He's actually the best roommate I've ever had...he cooks, he cleans, he shares his spare cigarettes and he has a pretty kick ass dog. However, his timing could be better...

I came home from work yesterday and things started out great with a fun afternoon romp with John--this is something that never happens on a weekday because John doesn't get home from work until 6:45 usually Since he's on a mini-vacation, he was ready willing and able. Just as we had moved our sweaty bodies to the floor for Round Two (Ding,ding,ding), we heard from downstairs, "Hey guys...(pause. no answer from us) Guys? How do you set up the wireless signal to my computer?" It was John's brother ER. Damned, if John didn't open the door and yell down to him, trying to give essential instructions. Then, after looking at me said quickly (I think this was when he saw the demon fire in my eyes flickering), "I'll be down in a little." With that, my sweet brother in law realized what exactly was going on and scampered off to Kohl's to look at ties (keep your fingers crossed!! He went to a job fair specifically for military and former military peeps) for a little while.

While ER's timing could be better, John's idea of what's appropriate to share with my new family members also could be better...in fact, I pretty much wanted to punch him in the face. However, I don't need spousal abuse on my record and because he was three sheets to the wind, (remember, the boy's on vacation...he got liquored up as if someone was serving him drinks out a coconut) I forgave him.

We went out for Pint Night (if you get the beer that's on special, you get to keep your pint glass every time--it's a bit of a crap shoot...I don't need any NASCAR BudRacing pint glasses) with ER and his girlfriend. We got on the subject of Ocean City, MD and ER said something like, "It's like a mini Vegas...what happens in OCMD stays in OCMD!" and I nodded sagely having lived there for a summer and said glibly, "Like uh going down there to work for a summer when you first turn 21 and sleep with your 33 old boss?"(which I did). Now I left out part of the story but this story alone made ER's eyes bug out a little. However, it was nothing compared to the way his eyes bugged when John threw out fairly nonchalantly, "...and had a threesome with one of his friends." This is the point where I thought ER was going to have a heart attack but instead he said, "What?!?" with incredulity and I gave John a glare, he simply crossed his arms and said, "What? You did!" Oh jeez. Grasshopper has much to learn. Let's hope ER drank as much as John did last night and I don't have to sit and draw diagrams later...which I know I don't since Mr. ER travelled the world as a GI and I know for a fact is a wee bit (read: a lot) more worldly than I'll ever be!

Now a very important thing in a monagamous relationship is to keep things hot...you know, like a big spicy pot of Jambalaya (you will understand the food reference soon). So the other night I did my best to turn up the heat with John--I'm awesome like that, I suppose.

We started out with some smooches. I whispered in his ear, "Mmm, you taste like salami, I like salami it's one of my favorite lunchmeats" because well, he did...and it was cool because it's true, I like salami. He looked at me like I was crazy, ignored me with a little giggle and kept at his kissing work. Then things heated up a bit more. Clothes came off, kisses went everywhere and you all know how the game goes...and if you don't? You shouldn't be reading this blog and you should probably go ask your mommy about the birds and the bees (while you're at it, ask what insects and birds have to do with sex and let me know, m'kay?).

Moving on.

So just as things were getting supremely hot and I was all like, "Yeah! I'm gonna get me some of this husband of mine" (I talk to myself in my head like this sometimes, is that so wrong?). However, I say out loud, "And now I get to have some of my favorite of all lunchmeats!" in a really weird voice because I was still fixated on the salami comment, you see?(see the bottom of the post for an example of how I spoke...I'd be the green guy) I blame all of this, as well as the rest of my weirdness on the fact that I fell down sixteen stairs when I was two and landed on my head. Well, the martian voice and the off the wall lunchmeat statement got both of us laughing incredibly hard to the point where John just wasn't focused on his task at hand. Never fear, while laughing hysterically, I redirected him with a sharp heel to the back and all was well...aside from the mini crack ups throughout.

Later I thought he was leaning over to kiss me but instead he said, "So, we're resorting to weiner jokes now,huh? That's your foreplay script these days?"
"Of course not", I replied, " I'm not immature." He nodded and jabbed me in the ribs,
"It was going to be a joke about ring bologna, wasn't it?"

The man is a freaking mind reader.

My voice sounded like this:

Right before bed last night I raced upstairs to beat John to the bathroom-- and beat him I did. When John came in to brush his teeth he found me laughing and saying, "Uh oh" to myself. He did what any person would do when they find their significant other cracking up on the toilet in the dark, he asked, "What's wrong with you?" And with that, I presented to him my panties that I had forgotten to take off before sitting down to pee. I don't think I've done that since Kindergarten.

I think this is a true indication that I'm losing my mind, quickly rather than slowly.

In a totally unrelated story I would like to talk about how John's crazy too. See, because I can do that and he can't, because he refuses to blog with me. I've mentioned before how John talks in his sleep and he's really creepy about it because he sits up with his eyes open, grabs me and babbles about something strange and completely off the wall. Well last night he grabs me, shakes me awake and points in horror at the corner and asked me, "Is that a 20 lb rat or is it a 20 lb rabbit?" (as if it would really matter which 20 lb creature it was). Seeing nothing I groggily decided what to reply with other than, "Why are you waking me up!" I decided that telling him it was a rabbit would be more soothing so I said, "Babe, it's a 20 lb rabbit and it's not going to hurt you." He responded by pulling the covers up over his head and saying, "That's what you think, I'm getting the hell out of here!" and then he burrowed deep into the bed so that he was completely covered. His final muffled cry was, "Good luck!"

It's good to know that I'm going to have to be the hero when there's a 20 lb rabbit in the room!

1:41 am, that's what the clock said to me when I looked at it blearily as the dog was going wild. "What's going on?" I thought to myself. The dog rarely barks and when she does, it's for attention. This time the dog was beside herself, running up and down the stairs--growling and snarling at the door. That was enough for me to be concerned.

I had just relocated myself to the couch downstairs about a half hour beforehand because I couldn't stop coughing. I didn't want to keep John up so I just decided to curl up and be miserable downstairs. I sat up in the darkness and said, "What's up? What d'ya hear?" and then I heard it too...the front door knob was turning! I thought for a moment, "Did we remember to lock the door before we went to bed?"( sadly, I'm a little lax here in the Cornfield, but I guess I probably shouldn't be). And then again, I thought a little harder, "HOLY SHIT! Did we or did we not lock the door?!?" With that petrifying thought running wildly in my head. I quickly screamed up the stairs, "John! There's someone here! And they're trying to get inside!"
He yelled back to me, "I heard! Don't worry, it's locked and I'm taking care of it!"
From downstairs I heard him throw up the window in our bedroom and bellow out into the darkness, "Hey! What's going on down there? What do you want?"
And then I heard, "Hey, it's ER...can I stay here tonight?" followed by some girlish giggles in the background. It appeared that ER was not alone.

Finally, it all came together for me, and my heart slowed a little. John's brother has just moved back into the state after his three year relationship ended, and he's staying with John's dad who expressed that there should be no sleepover guests of any kind...a rule that ER already broke last week, and because of this caught a little hell. This morning it was nice to see that he tried to give us a head's up. ER sent both of us a text message at 12:30 am asking if it would be ok if he brought a girl over to our house. Unfortunately for him, we'd already been sleeping for about two hours and never got the message.

ER is a good looking kid so to be safe, I think we should probably just give him a key...or we'll be waking up the neighborhood on a daily basis! Who knew our cuddle puppy was actually a half decent guard dog??

After my party I decided that I needed to sleep...just...a...little. And so, I decided to sleep until about 3 pm. I valiantly stayed awake with my tedious hangover for several hours until I felt I could take it no more. That time came around 8:45 pm. Yep, I stayed awake for only a handful of hours. But then a curious thing happened.

I awoke at 1am with a desire for some dirty, sweaty, hungover sex. I rolled over to see what John was doing. I was surprised to find him sleeping. How could he do that to me?!? Sleep at 1am?!? Nay, I say! So I did my best to wake him up. First I started rubbing on him, then I started whispering things in his ear, I even grabbed his shoulders and gave him a quick shaking. When he became semi-conscious, I did my best to convey my needs to him. I think it went a little like this:

Me: John! Wake up and give me some loving!! I want sex!

John: Huuuh? Wha? (Snoooooooorrrrrrrrreeeeeee)

Being the resourceful girl that I am, I reached over and grabbed my old pal Mr. Pink, the very happy (and friendly) vibrator who hasn't seen much solo action since I've been married. In a few minutes we were reacquainted and I was satified and ready to go back to sleep. I rolled over toward John and said to him, "Spoon me!" in a very whiny voice and he replied sleepily with a very simple phrase that will forever make me grin:

"Why don't you get your vibrator to spoon you?"

What can I say?? The thing's pretty loud.

(if you don't want to watch it all, go to 1:17) What would happen if you talked like this all the time?? Like, what if you screamed/growled in a feral manner, "This is a pork chop!" when someone asked you what was for dinner? Try it tonight, it "fits" in any situation you can imagine (examples, "This is bedtime!" or "This is me naked!" I promise you, you will get a laugh out of someone...I know I did.

PS. You have to watch the 300 trailer to know what I'm talking about.