Saturday, August 07, 2004

Dogs Can Kill Romance Faster than Anything

Marriage is an interesting thing. It doesn't matter how much you swear that you'll keep having sex forever, you just don't. One of my good friends was having sex up to nine times a day when she first met her beloved. NINE TIMES! But now, it's a year and a half later, they're engaged, which is practice marriage and I don't know how much they're having sex, but I do remember my friend clearly saying that there were days where they didn't have sex at all and the other days, it wasn't nine times.

Some single people may think that's sad. But I think it's just a survival thing. There is no way you could have sex three times a day every day for 50 years of marriage. It would kill one of you (more than likely the men, heart attacks are bitches)and you'd only make it to year 15 of marriage (if divorce hadn't grabbed a hold of you first of course).

But I think the real reason married people don't have a lot of sex is because there is so much out there that ensures you won't. Take me today. A lazy Saturday morning, perfect time to have sex. I get up to go to the bathroom and notice a good-sized puddle of puke on the floor between our bed and the bathroom. Since when the dogs do bad things they automatically once again become just Sweetie Pie's dogs (I would never own such disgusting creatures!), I let him know of it, so that he is forced out of bed, gags as he cleans this mess up before even his first cup of coffee. He then crawls back in bed, but any mood for romance is probably killed by now.

But it gets worse. As I walk back to bed, my nose buried in John Grisham's latest paperback, I look up to see the most disgusting thing in the world. There at the foot of our bed, right smack between Sweetie Pie and I's sleeping spots, is a giant puddle of more puke.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWW" is all that can come out of my mouth. I am speechless at this point (I know, hard to believe, but trust me, it happened.) All I can do is point to the bed with a look of horror on my face (not sure what that looks like, I've never really practiced my look of horror in front of a mirror, but I like to think that it conveys just that, horror.) As Sweetie Pie gets up, I rip off the blanket and notice that the top sheet is soaked with barf. Same thing with the fitted sheet and all the way down to the mattress protector thingie.

In other words, Sweetie Pie and I comfortably slept for most of the night in the equivalent to a barf sandwich.

But here's the worst part of it all, and I guess this is the same thing as why people with children don't mentally breakdown when they get peed on, spit up on or any of the horrible things that babies can do. It didn't even freak me out that bad. I checked myself out for signs of dried puke, but could find none. It's as if, even in my sleep, my body found ways to steer clear of the danger.

Anyway, long story short, no chance of some loving this morning.

Love,

Catwoman

No comments: