Some women refer to their partners as Hon or Sweetie or Snookums or That Bastard Who Knocked Me Up. I, however, refer to the funnily philosophical man I married a little bit differently. My husband is The Smotch. (Roughly translated, this term of endearment indicates that my spouse is the indelible mustard stain on the heart of my existence.) And he spouts enough of his own unique brand of -isms every day to fill a book. (The working title of this volume is Shit My Smotch Says; feel free to chime in with your own suggestions, but I think SMSS has a nice ring to it. :P)
Now that you have at least an elementary (my dear Watson) understanding of the title of this post, we can proceed. Today’s Smotchisms are brought to you by the letter W. For Whaaaaa…?!?!
This morning, upon waking, Smotch announced that he had a headache. (This is unusual. He very rarely has headaches…probably because he usually gives them to me.) I twisted my features into an expression befitting a concerned wife (I’ve practiced in the mirror to be sure I’m conveying *exactly* how much I care), furrowed my brow (this is a delicate move; over-scrunching can create a constipated look), and said (in a concerned tone of voice), “Oh?”
“Yeah,” he responded.
He paused a moment before expounding on his theme.
“It’s not bad,” he continued. “It’s just… I notice my head.”
I notice his head as well. (It sort of stands out, particularly when he’s just woken up.) I can feel his head too. Pretty much any time I want. :D. But… Woops! Apparently, that causes a completely different kind of head ache. (I’ve often said that orgasms are the ultimate cure-all. Keep that in mind next time you want sex and your significant other tells you they have a headache.) 😉
And (heh) headed on in that vein…
I stayed naked for the majority of the day today. I’m not really a fan of clothing; it just gets in my way. (I’m not a nudist, per se. I just prefer to be as unencumbered ~ and as easily accessible ~ as possible when within the confines of my own home.) So it wasn’t until seven o’clock tonight that I stepped into a pair of jeans and borrowed one of his sweatshirts (it’s laundry day ~ need I say more?), attempting to conform to society’s sartorial norms before heading out to pick up dinner. Smotch did not approve of the donning of the clothes, but was delighted to note the fact that my nipples were visibly hard against the fabric of my (his) shirt.
“You’re not wearing a bra, are you.” It was a statement. Not a question.
“I have little boobs,” I shrugged in response. “I don’t think I should have to wear a bra.”
He lifted my (his) shirt, sucked on my pebbled flesh, then grinned before he retorted, “I have a small dick.” (Um, nooo…OMG, he does NOT!) “So I don’t think I should have to wear pants.”
I adore my Smotch and his -isms. I’m bound to have a ridiculous amount of wrinkles in my old age, but at least I’ll be able to honestly say that the majority of them appeared as the result of so much laughter.