Oh, c’mon! It’s funny!
😛
Oh, c’mon! It’s funny!
😛
Not exactly.
Take a look at the lenses.
We created our own balcony scene. 😉
For more about Wanton Wednesdays, please visit my blog. Thanks for stopping by!
I thought the only people with obvious difficulty measuring were men with Dicklexia. I was wrong.
Last weekend, my highly stressed out, uber-OCD hairdresser (yes, I know I’m supposed to call her a ‘stylist’, but I don’t; never have, never will) was supposed to trim an inch (ONE inch) of length from my hair. One inch. That’s it.
One.
Inch.
One Inch!
Miss Shears-a-Lot clearly never passed elementary math. Or if she did, she was using a ruler from another planet. Because *SIX* (SIX!) inches (six inches!) later, I had to threaten her with bodily harm to get her to stop cutting.
Snip, snip.
“Girl, if you want to avoid getting them shoved into your eye socket…”
Snip, snip, snip.
“…Put. The scissors. Away.”
Snip.
“NOW!”
So my hair *used to* fall below my bra line.
Now it falls to the middle of my shoulder blades.
Six inches! (SIX!)
That’s half a foot!
Grrr…
But it’s not foot measurements that put this situation in the proper perspective. Think about it this way: She shortened my curlies by an average (that’s what *I* consider average, anyway) cock length.
And it’ll take me a year to…erm…get it back up (heh) to the length it used to be.
FUCK.
Fuckity-Fuck, Fuck, Fuck! (And I don’t mean that in a let’s-have-a-bout-of-sweaty-sex kind of way.)
Aaauuugggh!
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.”
Uhmmm…
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.