My beloved is leaving me. Today. He is packing his bags and heading south. No, he's not off to fight for freedom. No, he's not trading me in for a newer, kinder model. The bastard is chasing the almighty dollar. And this is one momma that is not to thrilled about it. Oh, sure, it's not like he won't be back. In six weeks he'll arrive on my door step, eager to please, with his fists full of cash. Well, not really. Much more likely, he will slink back in the middle of the night, drop his luggage (in the middle of the living room,) and sneak into bed to cop a feel. Truthfully, I look forward to that cheap feel. Six weeks is a long time for this momma to not have her "cake."
Six weeks of soccer games solo. Six weeks of parenting Fric and Frac. Six weeks of not having any one farting in bed. Or leaving his dirty, balled up socks for me to find. Six weeks of not having an armpit to stick my nose into when I climb into bed. Six weeks of celibacy.
The closest I'm gonna get to getting my rocks off is having phone sex with my hubs who is notorious for falling asleep while on the phone.
Maybe I need to find myself a pocket rocket or a one of those little Rabbits everyone is talking about.