L-bombs and F-bombs

Love

On Friday, it will be 10 official years since hubs and I dropped the first L-bombs on one another.

I’ll honestly never forget it.  We were laying in bed in my minuscule one bedroom apartment watching an episode of “Whose Line is it Anyway” on my 12″ tv/vcr combo that had come with me when I moved from college just a few months before.

Something on the tv made me laugh so hard I snorted.  And not cute dainty snort either.  We’re talking full nostril-hair-shaking-there-might-have-been-a-little-snot snort.

He looked over at me with this amazed look on his face and said, “Well fuck.”

Assuming something was wrong, or that I had inadvertently shot a snot rocket at him, I anxiously asked, “what happened?”

He replied, “yeah, I just realized that I love you.  Damn it.”

We had been playing the we’re-just-really-close-friends-who-sometimes-have-sex-but-have-no-interest-in-a-relationshp game for close to two months at that point, and I think we both had realized it was something a little more.

Kudos to him for having the balls to say it.  I sure as hell didn’t at first.

Fast forward to a little over 4 years later.  We were in Florida in my hometown for Christmas walking on a beach that I had played on as a kid.  Somehow the conversation turned to where I would want to get married, if we ever got around to it.  As it turned out, which he totally knew, if I had it my way I would get married in pretty much the exact spot we were in at the moment.

Imagine my surprise when he did the whole drop to one knee maneuver and asked me to marry him.

Need some help painting the beautiful picture?

Well, my response was “oh fuck?  Are you fucking kidding me?  Don’t you have bad knees?  What are you doing?  Fuck.  Seriously.  What the fuck?”

And you know how I know this man is perfect for me?  His response, “Well that certainly illustrates the diversity of the word.  So is that a yes?”

Fucking right it was.

** Bonus points for anyone who gets the movie reference.** 🙂

Apparently, I am the opposite of anal retentive

Retirement at 30 is awesome.  I get to do pretty much anything I want on a given day, which sometimes includes helping hubs out at his screamingly successful business.  I get to do the fun stuff, which lately has meant helping with recruiting new employees.

The calls go something like, “Hi there.   Your resume looks pretty fancy and wouldn’t you like to make enough money that your wife doesn’t have to work anymore?  Yes?  Well then you should come in for an interview.”

I’m great at it.  Well, sorta.

It also means I’m on hand for any other odds and ends things he needs done, which he loves and I enjoy because I end up feeling useful at least once a week. I guess that’s my minimum.

Today there was an HR explosion that resulted in hubs being alone in the office without an admin, and having an appointment that he needed to get to.  Lucky him, I was here, and jumped at the chance to help out.

So now it’s just after 4 p.m. and I’m on my own answering phones until 5.

Which of course means that right now, at this very moment, I have to poop.

Figures.

Man hands and handjobs don’t mix

feel safe

It’s probably not surprising that hubs and I, we have some sex.  Heck, I would go so far as to say we have some downright athletic romps thanks to my “ass to grass” squat capabilities.

Since adding Crossfit into my fitness routine, I’ve received nothing but compliments from the man.  From the changes to my body, to my stamina, to my strength in various er… positions, he’s a big fan.

And frankly, so am I.  It’s super awesome to be able to do it and not end up focused on how much my thighs are burning or how sore my lower back is because the muscles are weak and out of shape.

But, there has been one thing that has changed for the worse.  Lately, it’s been so bad that I’ve heard more than one “ow!” in the bedroom.  Since we’re not into the S&M stuff, ow is never a good word.

It’s my freaking hands.

They are a disaster.  So bad in fact, I’m banned from giving handjobs and really shouldn’t use them at all when touching the delicate bits.

This is such a shame because my grip strength kittens, it’s out of the darn world.

But my razor sharp callouses and man hand type texture just kills the mood.  Apparently no amount of callous shaving in the world is going to make them feel any less like sandpaper.

What’s a Crossfit girl to do?

Nuclear containment on the weekends

clean house

I hate it when our drunk friends want to crash at our house on Friday nights.  Not because we don’t have the room, or because I hate drunk people or I’m nervous that I’m going to forget that they’re there and walk out the next morning to make the coffee naked.  No, it’s because by Friday night it looks like a nuclear bomb made up of shoes, underpants and Tupperware containers detonated my home.

You see, we’re not home much during the week and when we are it’s usually just to strip down, put on pjs, eat something and pass out.  We then wake up and do it all again the next day, and are not fabulous about you know, cleaning up after ourselves as we go.

As a result, Saturday is MY personal holy day, the holy day of Clorox.  Every Saturday morning husband wakes up, goes into the office for a few hours, and then proceeds to golf or work or go drinking or whatever to keep himself out of the house during nuclear containment.

Saturday is the day I clean.

If you think I sound crazy now, just you wait.  It gets better.  For one, I freaking enjoy it.

I love having the house to myself to survey, triage, and dive right in.  I’ve been doing this a long time kittens, and have a complete and total method to my madness.  Some weekends the place only needs an 6 effort on a scale to 10 to get it back to being livable.  But some weekends, when I’m down on my hands and knees with scrub brushes attached to various parts of my body stinking of bleach and sweat and god knows what I’m scrubbing off the ground, those weekends I give it a 10.

And then we have a picnic on the floor in the living room.  Because damn it, if the floors are clean enough to eat off of, we might as well.

Hubs has offered no less than 100 times to hire a “cleaning lady” so that I can relax and enjoy myself on the weekends.  The very thought makes my eye twitch.  When I contemplate that someone else might be responsible for using the “magic eraser” on my baseboards or fold my laundry, I break into a cold control freak sweat.

No, cleaning is my job.  It’s my ME time.

I’m not a neat freak at all.  Nor am I a germaphobe.  I guess I just get some sort of sick satisfaction from taking the hot mess that my house becomes by the end of every week and pulling the princess routine on it to get it shiny and new and more fabulous than it ever imagined it could be.

Because my house has an imagination after all.

Now I know what you’re thinking so before you ask, no, I do not want to come over and clean your filthbucket of a home.  My disgusting 5 day old Tupperware and my husband’s dirty socks I can handle.  Yours will likely make me vomit.

And I don’t clean up vomit.

So really, you’ll end up worse off than you started.

See, told ya it gets crazier.

Don’t ask the question if you don’t want the answer

funny-quote-getting-older

I found my third ever gray hair while getting ready for work this morning.  After a gasp, some “oh my God-ing” and a firm rip with the tweezers, that little bugger was no more.

Hubs just sat there laughing at me the entire time.  I turn 30 in less than a month so really, three gray hairs total isn’t so bad.  When he turned 30 he already had his sexy gray patch happening, and also had a little gray dispersed in his chest hair too.

Notice I said sexy.  For guys it’s sexy.

During our warm up at Crossfit the other day, Lickable-abs, Coach Shifu, Coach, and Holy-Crap-I’ve-Got-A-Cute-Baby were all talking about going gray.  I had never noticed it before in any of them, but yeah, they all have a few.  And they are all still ridiculously good looking.

Me?  Well I’ve never dyed my hair in my entire life… ok minus the purple wash out stuff in high school.  But I can guarantee you, when I get to the point where there are more than a few stray grays, I’ll be counting on an army of hair care professionals to cover that shit up.   Go ahead, call me vain, I am.  I don’t deny it.

But this whole traumatizing experience brought me to a question this morning that I’m just not sure about.  Frankly, I’m not sure I actually want to know, but because I can’t resist, I have to ask.

Hair on your head goes gray.  Check.

Hubs chest hair has a little gray, so it’s safe to assume that will happen too.  Check.

What about hair in… other places?  I mean yes, I shave off every bit of it… but with hubs should I be prepared that eventually the fluffy frame for the beans and frank will start to turn gray?

Oh my God I bet the answer is yes.

It’s yes isn’t it?

It’s as romantic as two women punching eachother in the face

ronda-rousey-miesha-tate-ufc-168-poster

Which anniversary is the one where you’re supposed to give blood?

For hubs and I, it will be this one.  I mean, it won’t be MY blood.  Others will be sacrificing it in our honor.  We’ll be like, Roman emperors or something.  I’ll have to work on my accent.  And my toga.

But I digress.

I am officially the proud owner of two tickets to UFC 168 in VEGAS!   The fight is on December 28, which happens to be our wedding anniversary.  We have long wanted to go to Vegas for the New Year, and when the Weidman vs Silva and Rousey vs Tate fights were announced, it was the deciding factor.

How cool is my husband that, rather than buy me jewelry, I get sweat and combat.

I live a very charmed life.

Mastering the Kama… eh, whatever

Weekly Writing Challenge:  Dialogue

Find the full challenge here: http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/09/16/writing-challenge-dialogue/

Summary: Nothing draws me into a post like an opening scene with dialogue. It doesn’t matter if you’re writing fiction, nonfiction, memoir, or even journalism: Drop me in the middle of the action. Make me a fly on the wall. I guarantee I’ll be instantly engaged, wondering who these people are. Or write as if you’re a character in your own story, and you’ve pulled me along for the adventure.

“Where is my leg supposed to go again?”  I said, balancing precariously on the edge of the mattress.  It was spectacularly difficult to try to appear sexy and graceful while also trying to do what felt like advanced yoga while naked, sweaty, and attempting to keep his penis inside me.

“Um, I think it goes on this side,” he replied, gesturing as he studied the drawing in the book.

I shifted my weight.  The arm that had kept me delicately dangling on the edge of the bed gave out.  He caught me as I collapsed, falling off the edge of the bed into a fit of giggles.  His hand under my head braced my fall and he landed gently on top of me just where he belonged.

“That was a close call,” he whispered, voice husky.  My giggles disappeared and I became suddenly, beautifully aware of how perfect this moment was.

“Not close enough,” I replied.

The conversation ended there, replaced instead with the most beautiful, inarticulate symphony I could ever hope to be a part of.

My ADD strikes again

I just discovered a pair of my husband’s underpants in my gym bag.

I have no explanation for this.  His clothes and my clothes don’t even go in  the same dresser, and this particular pair of boxers don’t even resemble anything that I own that might cause me to think they’re mine and stuff them in my bag right out of the laundry.

Following this discovery I dumped out my entire gym bag in my cube at work just to double check that the three different pairs of knee high socks that I can only seem to find one of didn’t end up in there as well.

They didn’t.

But I do have four sports bras, three pair of socks, a pair of my own underpants, my cycling kit a change of shirt for tonight and sneakers.  I like to be prepared because I frequently forget an item or two when packing at 5:30 a.m.  Like I apparently did today.

Notice anything missing?

Yup, pants.

So it’s possible I’m going to have my post-ride beer in my husband’s underpants.  Because I’m that awesome.

Kiss the bicep… kiiissss itttttt

It's a really REALLY good thing I'm not a boy.
It’s a really REALLY good thing I’m not a boy.

Have you ever caught a glimpse of yourself out of the corner of your eye and somehow just end up staring mesmerized?

Yeah, me either.  Until last night.

While out to dinner with the hubs at our favorite sushi spot, I reached across the table for another bite of tataki.  As I did, I caught a glimpse of my bare bicep and shoulder out of the corner of my eye.

It was like a cat with a shiny object.  I was hypnotized.

I can’t believe my arms look this… good?

When have I ever thought my arms look good?

Hubs caught me oogling myself and laughed.  His response?  “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to arm wrestle you either.  I don’t like to lose.”

It took pretty much every ounce of self control I had not to tackle him to the table right then and there.  You know… to prove how strong I am.

Eye contact at strip clubs

I went to a gentleman’s club for the first time ever this weekend.  I loved the shoes.  And the fishnets.  And the amazing fake eyelashes.

The guys I was there with said I was totally missing the point.  They were also shocked to learn that the dancers have shoes.  Or eyes for that matter.

Maybe I was missing it, but I have boobs of my own so I can oogle them all I want.  I do not, however, have 7 inch clear platforms that lace up to my knees and have crystals in the heels.

Not yet anyway.

shoes

I was also really impressed by the athleticism of some of the women.  I won’t go so far as to say that I’ve never seen pole dancing before, but in person, it’s pretty spectacular.  As someone who is scared of heights seeing naked women shimmy to the top of a pole on a stage and then plummet back down by nothing but the strength of their inner thighs is pretty thrilling.

So I guess you could say I enjoyed it.

Minus the moment where I accidently made eye contact with a good friend who was getting a lap dance.  Let’s just say, I now know the man’s O face.  Awkward