The Gift That Will Keep on Giving

My darling Boo has been gone for more than two months. I have seen him twice in that time. It's been a long, dry spell, for this Mommy, if you catch my meaning. Wink, Wink. Really, to all you wives of soldiers or really, to any wife whose husband is gone for extended absences, I applaud you. Because this ain't easy. Besides the fact that I'm missing my husband, I am the sole parent. My kids see this, acknowledge this, then go to their bedrooms and have a powwow to discuss the many ways they can slowly drive their mother into a drooling, rocking shell of a human. They're like little hyenas, circling their prey, laughing all the while.

My darling Boo, says I can handle it. That, dear internet, is because the bastard doesn't have to deal with his offspring. If I have to listen to any more arguments over who didn't flush the damn toilet, who stole my pencil crayon (heaven forbid they need that exact one, when there are literally hundreds more) or whose turn it is to wash the dishes, I'm gonna go kamikaze on their asses. Just so you know.

Then there are my inlaws. I love these people dearly. Really, I do. (My mantra, I'll just keep repeating it.) But why should I have to deal with my darling's mother if he won't? Why do I have to explain, over and over again when Boo will be home. Phone them your damn self, dear husband.

But alas, I know I do all this, because I'm a sucker I love him. And it is this passionate love that I have for him that drove me to a moment of insanity. I thought I was being cute, I thought I was being a good wife.

What did I do? Why, thanks for asking, dear internet. I actually posed naked for pictures to my goon.

Not Hustler pics, no,no. I wouldn't want to scare the poor man. Or make him cry. No, these were tasteful nudies. Black and whites, taken with all the skill and patience I have acquired as my years of a journalist.

Read: A lot of fucking swearing and cursing, repositioning so a tit doesn't hang out, and the kids knocking at the bedroom door, wondering what's going on to make mommy so angry.

Hours later, and every single muscle in my body limp with exhaustion, I had the final product. So I sent the package up North with cookies, and a love letter and eagerly awaited his response. All the while, feeling immensely proud of myself. I had gotten past my low self esteem and did something nice for my hubby. Something tasteful that I could be proud of.

My darling hubs got his package. He ate his cookies. He carried on. No response. Days later, I asked him if he received anything special.

He chuckled, and then said thanks. Oh, and the cookies were good, he replied.

The fucking cookies?? Slowly, I exhaled, and bite my tongue. I asked him if he liked the pics. (Bastard's already in the dog house. He looses points for making me ask about the damn photos.)

He chuckles again, says they were NICE. Oh, yeah, and thanks. Could I send him any more of those cookies?

As the steam is pouring out of my ears, I asked him what he thought of the photos where I twisted and contorted my naked body for hours so that I could give him beautiful, tasteful pictures of me for him to enjoy.

"Oh, you looked real pretty in all of them. But I couldn't see anything good."

"That's why they are tasteful Boo. You get a hint of what is there, and you are supposed to use your imagination." I reply.

"Well, it would have been easier if you just gave me a money shot."

And that dear internet, is the romance I share with my husband.

And just so you know, I didn't take the money shot. I sent him a Hustler mag instead. Pervert.