Screw you, Easter Bunny.
Has someone ever asked you to hand them a pair of scissors and you get a sudden urge to, like, jam the scissors right into their eye socket?
You don’t do it of course, but you think about it.
Or is it just me?
I have the most horrifying thoughts sometimes.
When I’m talking to my boss for example, in my head I’m wondering what would happen if I jumped out of my chair, dropped my pants, and shoved a water bottle up my ass.
What would happen? Would she shriek and run away? Would she stare, agog? Would she laugh? Would she call the police? Would I be fired?
I don’t know! And it drives me nuts!
I can predict what she might do, sure. But that’s not good enough.
And then I get all worked up because I’m scared that I might lose control of myself and actually DO IT.
And I start getting a little sweaty as the anxiety builds.
And it starts to pool up in my butt crack.
So while my boss is talking about whatever, I’m not listening to her at all because I’m thinking “No. Don’t do it. Don’t pull your pants down and stick a water bottle up your ass! Whatevayado! Don’t. Do. That.”
And when I’m holding a machete, I have an urge to chop it into my arm.
When I look over a high balcony, I consider jumping.
Or when I’m driving, I want to swerve into oncoming traffic.
And I swear to Jesus I’m not suicidal or anything, I just want to know what would happen next.
You think some crazy shit sometimes too.
I know it.
Going through old photos looking for a dorky picture of myself to share with the internetatrons: A somewhat painful trip down Memory Lane.
I swear I was tempted to blackmail myself a few times, but that would have gone nowhere.
Finding pictures and realizing that my thing for the paisans didn’t start with Tony Soprano at all, but in high school with 1st ever boyfriend Tommy Delfino instead:
Awwwww…so cute. I was such a little Puttana for that boy. I so almost lost my virginity that night!
Could I have chosen some larger flowers maybe? And that dress…ugh! Joan Rivers would have a fucking field day! I mean, is it Halloween or prom? Seriously.
Anywho, 2 years later we broke up because he had a goomah like any good Italian boy did. But I wasn’t an Italian girl, so I didn’t have to put up with that bullshit.
OMFG! and his family?
Sshhhh! You don’t want me to get whacked do ya?
And you know I wore red for St. Joseph’s day yesterday, right?
And then I got naked and rolled around in Zeppole.
Don’t tell anyone.
If you don’t want to know the intimate details of my sex life, close your eyes because once you read it, you can’t un-read it.
Let me give you a little scenario that occurs frequently at our house.
It’s 8:00 and girlfriend is finally sleeping. By this time on a typical day, I’ve gotten out of bed at 6am to do an hour of power yoga with either Bryan Kest, Baron Baptiste, or sadistic bitch Kristen McGee. I’ve showered, dressed, made breakfast, packed lunch, gone to work,
blogged worked, come home, done laundry, dishes, floors, girlfriend’s bath, prepared dinner, drank a bottle modest glass of wine, cleaned up after dinner, and helped get her into bed.
And then I collapse, exhausted as a crack whore coming off a bender.
Mister, on the other hand, has come home from work after a grueling day downloading porn, obsessing over photography message boards, having lunch out with the guys, and putting whoopie cushions on his co-worker’s chairs.
And guess what he wants? And I know what he wants because he’s breathing.
And I’m thinking “NO. Everything. NO.”
I want to be touched about as much as I want to run naked down my street banging a metal bucket over my head with a wooden spoon.
(I’d actually prefer that)
I have only two options here. I can tell him to sod off and have him act like a dickhead until I finally give it up — OR (valuable marital survival tip here so pay attention) — allow a “play through.”
A “play through” is really a golf term that my friend’s husband applied to what’s going on over at their place.
And it’s perfect.
And so we adopted it.
And so will you.
Here, let Crissy school you.
About.com defines a “play through” thusly:
When a faster group of players is allowed to pass a slower group on the course. This usually happens at the invitation of the slower group – etiquette dictates that a slower group allow a faster group to play through. The slower group may allow the pass to occur from any part of the hole, but it usually occurs when the faster group approaches a tee box on which the slower group is still playing. The slower group usually stands aside and waits for the faster group to complete the hole before resuming play itself. Sometimes the move is required by a course marshall, who tells one group to stand aside while another group plays through.
I’ve always said it’s important to observe proper etiquette whether you’re on or off the course. I don’t golf, but that’s not the point.
Anyway, it translates very nicely into the bedroom where we also have lots of balls and clubs and people just hanging around waiting for something to happen:
exhausted wife “slower group” sort of just lays there watching Ghost Hunter “stands aside” while the husband gets his way without bothering anyone “completes the hole.” Following the play through, Johnny can’t get enough “faster group” is to keep quiet while the exhausted wife “slower group” goes to sleep “resumes play.”
We don’t have play throughs all the time. They only happen sometimes.
It’s exactly like when you have drunk sex and you wake up with no pants on and think to yourself “what the fuck happened last night?” and then you look at the dude next to you in bed and think “EW!” except that you’re married to the dude.
were probably drunk anyway were not drunk.