Tonight I got home after 12 hours of work and class feeling terrible. I have a fever, aches, a sore throat, and chills…. I’m supposed to be cooking Thanksgiving for my family and believe me, immediately after this post I will be going to bed in many layers of sweats and the heater on high….
***The post has been interrupted for me to yell at Nick, “Hey!” for chewing on his fingernails within 4 feet of my oversensitive ears…*** And we resume….
Upon my arrival home Nick and I begin our routine of kisses and hugs hello and chatting about our day. For no apparent reason whilst watching “The Voice” and a clip of Christopher Walken on SNL talking about “More Cowbell” I had to look at Dwayne Johnson, aka The Rock’s, muscles. I mean, come on, this is important from time to time. It was actually an intellectual discussion about ‘roid Rock versus marriageable Dwayne. Everyone can agree that the super big steroid loving “The Rock” is only of one night stand quality, but Dwayne Johnson, as seen in “Walking Tall,” would be a man anyone would be proud to take home to Mama.
***The post has been interrupted for me to yell at Nick, “Hey!” for non-stop cracking his knuckles…*** And we resume….
Well apparently Nick just didn’t understand this concept. Or didn’t care. But the irony of his wife objectifying a man like this wasn’t something he was willing to discuss either. Nick’s answer to my self debate about SuperCrazyGiant Dwayne versus Giant Dwayne was literally, “Okay, I get a butt pinch.”
Now I know a lot of women would be super happy about their husband being so flirtatious. Believe me, I am NOT complaining. All I’m saying here people is that I don’t use similar tactics. Let’s think about this. Insert any conversation Nick initiates about his car… if my response were, “Okay, I get a crotch squeeze,” what would that accomplish?
First, Nick would NEVER have a conversation I was interested in again. He would only talk about cars, football, wireless receivers, the difference between the 50″ plasma versus the 52″ plasma…. Second, we would have 14 kids. There is no birth control in the world that would survive a wife trying to distract said husband from talking about boring crap with the touching of happy places. But, I digress…
At any rate I took offense to his prioritizing my patuckus over the intellectual conversation about WWE Rock versus actor Dwayne. It was at this point that I looked down and saw that he was wearing only 1 sock. We continued to debate the important factors in the Rock/Dwayne convo when he grabbed the other sock and began to rip….
This was distracting enough to spurn a whole new conversation. I won’t repeat, only write an inquisitive letter to my husband asking for an explanation…
Why is it that you must kill your socks? When I find a hole in a sock I am content with throwing it away. When I find the mate, if it’s a unique pair, I throw that one away too. Why must you be all manly and rip them apart? Tonight when I noticed you ripping the one remaining sock on your foot I asked what had happened with the other. You stated that your left foot sock had a little hole and you ripped it apart before I got home. Ever since I have been typing this blog you have intermittently grabbed your sock, as it’s still on your foot, and ripped it apart in an Iron Man trying to kill a phone book fashion. It’s as if you’re in a competition with the makers of the cotton. I am not sure if you are trying to prove that you’re buff to me. I believe you. Your arms are already as big as my thighs. I get it. Anyway, if you feel the need to kill those socks for whatever testosterone filled reason, you go ahead and do it.
I love you.
And that, my friends, is a night in the life of these Tishkos.