Readers sometimes ask me questions about my husband. About his personality, his interests, how he got his nickname, how we got together, etc. I feel like I write about him a lot, in that our interactions – sexual and non – make for regular blog fodder. But I recognize that there is a difference between writing about him and writing *about* him. And outside of our silly scenarios… Honestly… I’m not quite sure what to say. Not that I can’t describe him, or that I’m incapable of telling our story, but it’s… A balancing act. We have real lives, and real identities, and when it comes to what I write here, I always have to consider, What can I say that won’t give too much away?
Sometimes a song slips inside of me like a tickling sensation under the skin of a ghost limb… Part of me but not of me… It creates a tingling awareness of the elusive ~ something there but not; an itch that cannot be scratched.
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Right now, in Feve-land…
The Mister is straddling the cat (who is yowling his displeasure and clawing into his daddy’s skin) wielding a pair of scissors at the cat’s ass in an attempt to remove the nastiest smelling will-not (seriously, I nearly vomited) in the history of the earth.
THIS is the glamorous life I lead.
{And this is one of the million reasons I love my husband. He deals with the shit – literally – around here that I can’t handle.}
How’s that for a craptastic night?
o_O