File it under t.m.i...

...But I am one lucky fucking lady. Emphasis on the profanity. Oh yeah.

Listen, when the time comes for you crazy kids to finally settle down and get married and all that lovely shit, girls, have your man talk to my man first. Seriously. Don't go signing anything until you've sent him over to our place with a notepad and a tape recorder, because I guarantee you... he will learn something.

You want to talk about foreplay? Last night, dear husband made dinner, cleaned the oven, rubbed my feet, watched Project Runway with me, AND gave me a back massage. Let me tell you, I needed a new pair of panties before we even got into bed. I don't know when he did it, but apparently he's taken an advanced crash course in "Being a Phenomenal Husband". Okay, granted, the class seems to have skipped a few fundamental lessons, like "Ten Places Wet Towels Don't Belong" and "The Art of Food Shopping", but what's a soggy bath towel in the middle of the living room floor when you're eating spinach and provolone stuffed flank steak and discussing tacky menswear with the hubby and Tim Gunn? Exactly. (Ooh, and on a completely unrelated note, what in the hell did Sweet P. do to that shirt last night?! I've seen chimpanzees with Down's syndrome put together better made pieces with a handful of leaves and a pile of their own poo. I mean, really.)

Anyway, see? Just cause i'm always moaning like the grumpy little shit I am, doesn't mean that I don't have plenty to be happy about, too. Like the sex god husband. And these fresh baked cookies I've been munching on all day. And the fact that the squatter's recently decided to take up in-utero Capoeira (cutest thing ever). That's right, kids, right now I'm on a hormonal upswing and life is simply b-e-a-utiful.

With love and peace and rainbows and starry ski-- okay, now I'm just being a twat,
a.