Fun first date idea for guys: While eating ice cream with your date, accidentally rip your jeans from belt loop to knee cap exposing your 'I Love You' heart boxers underneath. Topped off with a healthy eyeful of doughy, white, hairy, inner thigh and you've got yourself one turned on woman.
Ok, so probably not the best inaugural date, but it makes for a freaking hilarious moment when you're husband and wife.
Funny how things like that don't matter after you're married. Like, for instance, 'blowing up' the bathroom. During our dating years, I bridled my bowels like a jockey. Not once did a whiff of my number two emanate into the Lovely's nostrils. I also restrained my gas and belching.
However, things seem to 'loosen up' after the "I do's." Now my bowels are about as bridled as a toddler's. And my flatulence? Can you say, "Martin Luther"?
Liz likes it though.
About as much as my thighs.
Here's a recent thought on what my motivation should be:
I want no riches, no pleasure, no fame or power
For my heart will be satisfied in You
Nothing compares to the goodness You offer
My heart will be satisfied in You
For You are righteous and holy and just and true
And worthy of all my days to worship You
You are righteous and holy and just and true
And worthy of all my days to worship You
Friday, July 27, 2007
Friday, July 20, 2007
Brideless
My wife's a hottie.
Surprisingly, some of the mushy engagement feelings fade after only two short years of marriage. But I remain persuaded her absolute Babe-ness will stick around.
Tonight I'm waxing hormonal because she's gone and has been for the WHOLE last 24 hours.
Our annual family trip to Bull Shoals lake commenced three days earlier than my employer deemed necessary for my departure, so I had to stay behind. However, my wife Liz was able to catch the last stage out of Wichita via the parent's suburban. This left me brideless Thursday through Saturday. Yup, she left me hanging in our lonely duplex to galavant all over the Arkansas countryside with my parents, siblings and extended family .
They like her better than me anyway.
Things are offbeat when she's not around. I wasn't awakened to the hum of her blowdryer this morning. No 'I miss u' text messages at work today. No kisses at the door.
It felt wrong to sleep on her purple pillow last night. Wrong because that is Liz's special pillow. When she's in bed, Purpie (the pillow's name) can only be touched by her rightful owner.*
I cannot count on one hand the number of times the drowsy Mrs. has petitioned the retrieval of Purpie from the living room to the bedroom at some ungoldy hour because, "I can't get comfortable without her, and I need you to go get her because she's lonesome without me. "
Sometimes I curse Purpie.
I couldn't get comfortable without Liz last night, and I was lonesome without her. Her presence fills up a room, and the lack thereof makes it shrink.
I live in a smaller house tonight.
*The pillow is female. Although I have yet to spot genetalia, the zipper strikes me a bit male-looking which leads me to believe Purpie is kind of butch which leads me to believe we own a lesbian pillow.
Surprisingly, some of the mushy engagement feelings fade after only two short years of marriage. But I remain persuaded her absolute Babe-ness will stick around.
Tonight I'm waxing hormonal because she's gone and has been for the WHOLE last 24 hours.
Our annual family trip to Bull Shoals lake commenced three days earlier than my employer deemed necessary for my departure, so I had to stay behind. However, my wife Liz was able to catch the last stage out of Wichita via the parent's suburban. This left me brideless Thursday through Saturday. Yup, she left me hanging in our lonely duplex to galavant all over the Arkansas countryside with my parents, siblings and extended family .
They like her better than me anyway.
Things are offbeat when she's not around. I wasn't awakened to the hum of her blowdryer this morning. No 'I miss u' text messages at work today. No kisses at the door.
It felt wrong to sleep on her purple pillow last night. Wrong because that is Liz's special pillow. When she's in bed, Purpie (the pillow's name) can only be touched by her rightful owner.*
I cannot count on one hand the number of times the drowsy Mrs. has petitioned the retrieval of Purpie from the living room to the bedroom at some ungoldy hour because, "I can't get comfortable without her, and I need you to go get her because she's lonesome without me. "
Sometimes I curse Purpie.
I couldn't get comfortable without Liz last night, and I was lonesome without her. Her presence fills up a room, and the lack thereof makes it shrink.
I live in a smaller house tonight.
*The pillow is female. Although I have yet to spot genetalia, the zipper strikes me a bit male-looking which leads me to believe Purpie is kind of butch which leads me to believe we own a lesbian pillow.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Preliminaries
My column in high school and college was Brick-a-Brac, spelled incorrectly due to the spelling of my last name.
The real word is bricabrac.
Pronunciation? [brik-uh-brak]
Definition? noun: miscellaneous small articles collected for their antiquarian, sentimental, decorative, or other interest. Synonyms include trinkets, gimcracks, knickknacks, baubles, gewgaws.
These 'small articles' might capture your interest inasmuch as Rosie O'Donnell might capture Victoria's Secret's interest for a new lingerie spread, but I'll pen them anyway.
No longer in high school, gradumacated from college and wrapping up an MBA : I' m ready to be a more better writer with interestinger insights.
It's been a while. I'm rusty. But it's good to be back (thanks, Tony).
Here's a recent thought on heaven:
'Bittersweet Joy'
One bittersweet joy is the realization of temporal existence.
For a moment, we taste the eternal and grasp the scope of timelessness.
"Freedom! Let us dance! We shall sing 'till daybreak!"
Then we are ushered back to the task at hand - the practical.
Celestial banqueting tables tantalize famished mortality.
Thunders taunt the soul's parched landscape.
All time’s mockery.
The real word is bricabrac.
Pronunciation? [brik-uh-brak]
Definition? noun: miscellaneous small articles collected for their antiquarian, sentimental, decorative, or other interest. Synonyms include trinkets, gimcracks, knickknacks, baubles, gewgaws.
These 'small articles' might capture your interest inasmuch as Rosie O'Donnell might capture Victoria's Secret's interest for a new lingerie spread, but I'll pen them anyway.
No longer in high school, gradumacated from college and wrapping up an MBA : I' m ready to be a more better writer with interestinger insights.
It's been a while. I'm rusty. But it's good to be back (thanks, Tony).
Here's a recent thought on heaven:
'Bittersweet Joy'
One bittersweet joy is the realization of temporal existence.
For a moment, we taste the eternal and grasp the scope of timelessness.
"Freedom! Let us dance! We shall sing 'till daybreak!"
Then we are ushered back to the task at hand - the practical.
Celestial banqueting tables tantalize famished mortality.
Thunders taunt the soul's parched landscape.
All time’s mockery.
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